cxv.

deep along the highway, where the heat presses
against the tracks,

hazes around the old clapboard buildings, and
the green verge,

the grassy slope says you've come east enough
to leave the desert--

--trying to find something to grip, it
blows through your fingers.

the sunset casts light across the canyon
and the hills that
the freeway runs through, a broad line
of asphalt, wide as plaza--

--but empty, the shadows rise and the lights
twinkle, high up, and it feels
like a room

when the freeways spreads as wide as field
where the overpasses soar in arches
it feels like a room, a driveway as long
as the coastline,

leading up to the house.

here, this is not my city, the people are so used
to hallways and offices,
the streets have grown together, the street
is a living room,

street-lamps and the lights on buildings, and
the wind blowing softly
chill and damp, a little sweet--

--stars wavering above, windows but no doors,
when they have a party,
it spreads through the city like a hallway,

if you want quiet, no matter where you go
you can hear whispered voices--

--unless you cut down into the ravine that
runs through the center,

or follow it, out to the water, and late at night
when the shadows are deep.

and me with no map, and too many
or a plan, but mostly a concept
every structure starts with an equation
every shape is found in it's failure.