You’ve traveled across limitless sands
of your own making.
Bored, you take a mouthful
and blow a glass sun and people
the air with whispering lovers.
But the Rock you never made.
Before you opened an eye
it was there
immovable on the plain.
Though you walk among stars,
your knees dig holes all around it.
The sands run from your eyes.
A Bend in the Road
I don't need twisted bones
or the organs prized in some lands
or even pain,
but they bring these things to me
who am no god
but a bend in the road
walled and lit up clearly,
a place where young and old try
themselves against inertia
for the quick fix of adrenaline
their heroes say is gold.
Two this year already
down from the bridge on the stretch
just right for a red-line rush
in third gear, their oily smoke
turning bloody incense.
—William Ford, Iowa City, IA