burst to the slow summit of motorways at dawn
there's a freedom here
golden sun off blinding laurel bridges
people with no need to rise so early
no greater need than you
do you ever think it
when you're going so fast
do you ever think that you could die
do you ever will the combustions
and metals that carry you
to meet their absurd shadows
stretched out before them
faster than you, but getting shorter
and getting slower
roll away the glass
embrace the roar
magnify it
and feel the chill that is not.
the light washes the trees of who they are
the avenues of salute
from obsolete lamps
that draw you into these little cities
whose peoples are the steel and the concrete
whose bridges are megaliths
that ancient whispers foresaw
cutting brilliantly through seafoam wheat
my mother always looked at me peculiarly
but, god! - she tried
i fall to reality with the rising sun
but not of loosening night
simply of greeting stasis
anaemic-light-tunnels
built in visions of what the future used to be
false days in darkening motion
that make the tundras seem so small
and marries the hue of beauty, of brutality
here, upon a hill, something red-brick
there, beyond the mist, something stone
perhaps a church
i care not
the age of the concrete speaks to me
the distances wrap around me