This is called In the Realm of the Ignition.
Just for this afternoon, the traffic patterns
polish the primordial ways.
So the thinking is thought as almost
like driving home, kind of numb all over.
I am so crusty, and rusty and dusty
from driving the obvious ramp.
That's safe and silly, sort of drifting
toward a state of perfect adjustment
and not thinking about a thing.
These are simply floored traffic patterns.
And these cars are driven into the next century,
like satisfied and permanent pigs.
And in their stately mission, they are only getting older.
The clover leafs 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 mall of this day,
dripping in slow or no motion, like a no count accountant
taxing himself beyond reason.
Strictly speaking in the total house 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.