Come out of the city by I-95
in the center lane: passed left,
passing right bubble after
bubble-world, an elbow out or driver's
palm cupping the wind,
giving like a kite a moment, human
limbs that make the flight
a bird-migration, mind, mind,
mind not by communion curving here
but publishing the shape of space
for who might read it. Tract gives way
to field, to waste, but how the road banks
on this S makes a new down,
meets my G's securely.
Mountains soon. Scrub here,
as only farms could make it,
having failed. One tree ahead
is humpbacked under vine, behind
and gone; sunflowers buckle
under their seed-heads.
Half the weeds out there
are medicine or food,
even the kudzu whose root
thickens ginger sauce and cools a fever.
Proves nothing, except we are not
special, that chemistry describes us,
suggests we are not aliens on the earth,
despite our foreign manners.
Weed eats what weed gets. Bach
dopplers by, at 80 barely cruising.
[fr. Little Apocalypse]