i cannot tell where you stand
or what you think of me
do you tread on dry land,
or do you go through the sea?

your signs are unreadable, your lips are
divine, perhaps a sign that
you are like a traffic light going back
to green, or to red, to tell me to slow my car

but i can’t stop, it’s on a hill
and the brake-line is cut  
and as i gaze out of my windowsill
and see a tree sprouting chestnuts