hundred thousand miles

7/21/05

distance died
the day i learned i had feet
and could hobble across the land
at a toddler's wobble
in persuit of new adventures to the west -
a little intrepid explorer heeding the words of Greeley,
off to meet the setting sun

it still dies, twenty-one years later
every time I ride the wind in mechanical miracles
above snowdrift mountains of cloud
as I guide my car through
gobs of traffic slow as clots of glue
and as i send my pain through
the abstract passages I
cast as waves and electrons to heaven

but, oh, distance comes back, lurching like the undead
every time i peek inside
you
and feel the fear
you wrap around your shoulders
like a soft blue velvet shawl
on fire
or a molten rayon costume, that happy hollow facade
which seals away
that beautiful self
i rarely get to see