After driving most of the day,
you give up trafficking in society
and decide there are better ways
to make a loving. Or at least
other angles from which to view
the corpse of your former life.
It hangs in every tree you pass,
never more glistening now its breath
has gone, mist for lost birds to fly through.
Car door ajar, you bend and listen
to the road, expecting a heartbeat.
There is a rattle, a train carriage
coming loose, then rejoining.
The engine, which might be your car’s,
keeps on with methodical digging.
Down there no one asks questions
about punctuality or what is the reason
for driving away. And not for the first time
today, you know the meaning of life:
love is a long, slow allegation. You stare
down the tunnel it makes.
*first published, Blast, 2006
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