by Elias Siqueiros
Tomorrow we set out to cross the country
hoping for perfect weather,
the sun set in the sky bald in light.
I am like a pagan seeking
shadows to be doubled. Nearness
of all lost things.
The earth changes shape, I think
one way is as good as another,
one career ends and one no longer
needs water by which to flower.
One day turns to night and the porch light
is left on. The wolves move through
the neighborhood alleys.
One is named Mars.
One is named Nike.
One is Moneta, queen of the wine-dark geese.
Suns mark the highway and I think it’s
time to go. Old and long,
sniffing through the beginnings of
empires, it’s time to return to oak.
I say the poem now is a concrete thing,
a building at the side of the road
where one can stop for a toilet or a quick bite.
The grasses are yellow, in due time
there wilts the fever,
in due time all clocks must stop,
yet now there is a break in the cipher,
one can make sense.