You follow the telephone poles,
by their crooked way,
through the small-town rust,
and junk-yard mountains of aluminum soda cans
Past oak trees that grow green despite
the wither about them, and despite the strangling moss that saddens the wood
You follow the telephone poles,
till you come by the railroad track,
like the ones Ayn Rand wrote a thousand pages about,
Though this one is only worth seven, and a tacked-on reference,
and you'll follow it north, north, north
Till the sun sets,
and you can see the growing light,
and step in to me