Field liners awoke early
to mark, to set the field
lines, waking birds, unstartled
by white paint, went unabashedly
looking for breakfast.
Here it is: This road again.
Or is it? Wrote the total
down from each rising star,
rode the solar wind, blurred time
until the masses ceased to be.
Peering downward, stand-on toes
and you, somewhere. Are you
down there? Are you anywhere?
All I seem to see is laden Abraham
with steel, all I know is fear.
Now undone and tied with fishing-line
knots, fantasy-entwined and soul-wishing
for some sanity's semblance, at least.
Please forgive all of this affection, if
I express remorse at all, it should be yours.
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