Classic Poem

Nothing. Not even you, Dave, speak
at this speed. We have flattened out
a little toward that radiant
silhouette science talks about: —
mass moving at the speed of light.
Dusk wounds our windshield;
townships divide; the winding creek
unwinds; forest and field
flicker and slant. We have lost weight.
What syllable's not too ponderous
for us — two headlights twinkling
across country — small double star
in its untranquil firmament
of route and suburb. Inkling
of the Immaterial — we mount,
accelerate without effort, pass
through throngs unnoticed. ... All the same,
we saw a girl step from a car —
calves chiaroscuro; through blurred wood
watched a rotund old gelding plod
his moving pasture. ... These reclaim
our lost gravity: " Let me out! "
eh, Dave? Observance of the mass
for us. Let angels levitate.











Used by permission of author.