Road

This is what poetry is (says the Road),

a laying down of uniform pattern

across a land you can't control

but which you think it best to flatten.

It's far from vivid. Look at the whole

flamboyant forest! Look at the paths

that can't be uttered by a mouth

and at the scattered arcs of light

more integral to this wide planet

than words will ever be. Your lines?

Like railroad tracks that cut the bracken,

bring something through, then disappear.

No one knows what speck was taken

or where it moved, and no one cares.