Sinister patches of black tar
a roadway of eternal sink holes
the wonder of future
the wonder of you
romance me away from this rock
moss is growing under my poetry
the ink in ebony dress
levity is the broken line in the middle
of the interstate,
but my state of mind never passes you
I just hang back, hang-dog expression
eclipsed vision
the sun is a fox chased by the hounds of cumulus
even the Beat poets would think their poems cheerful
compared to taxi driver poets who get jumped
in their cabs with random tips–
most saying “give up, the world has no exit ramp for this”
Robert Creeley has a patch over both eyes now,
Plath is dying to stay in the institution
even Sexton thinks she wants a two-car garage
keep your motor running people
because others are shooting off their motor mouths
and exhausting the tolls
too expensive to drive the keyboards
the wonder of future
the wonder of you
put me in a trunk with the old keepsakes
and letters from Sylvia
and the poems Sexton wrote when she was good
ask Robert to come home
even with the patches
he might be able to see
what we are missing–
Stop signs pleading
to us to put a brake to the madness.