Just for this afternoon
the traffic patterns polish the primordial ways,
so that thinking this thought is almost
like driving home, kind of numb all over.
I am so crusty and rusty and dusty from driving
the obvious ramp, that safe and silly sort-of-drifting
toward a state of perfect adjustment
and not thinking about a thing.
These are simply flawed traffic patterns,
and these cars are driven into the next century
like satisfied impermanent pigs, 
and in their stately mission
they are only getting older.

The cloverleaves are folding.
There is an X on this window,
almost exquisite, the slight madness,
kiss and forgiveness.

I must turn over a new automobile.
This day reminds me
of all the others, and the virgin
lanes looming just out of reach,
the particular gaping maw of this day
dripping in slow or no motion
like a nocount accountant taxing himself beyond reason,
strictly speaking in the tollhouse of grief
like smoke joining the World Sensorium for just a moment.
Aug! The One! This new power is very great!
I must buy one of these new automobiles,

upward and away!