Driving Song
the names of all the roses
the size and shape of my vehicle
The trees and brush by the roadside gathered speed,
and began to pass me by
The yellow streetlights blushed and breathed
like some huge, translucent
deep-sea creature
The world had taken leave of the senses
The stain on the seat-cover
blossomed gradually
Noisy lights brushed the tops of trees,
and the radio itself
started to talk and talk and talk
Then
I was a word, loosed from the Webster's
lexicon
I was a frat boy, fallen from pride, drink, and the Fall
I was a catamite, with no tamed serpent to ring
around my finger
I had sinned against the Holy Ghost
But the engine drove me home, and parked
in front of the throne by the TV set,
which I calmly refused to watch,
because I felt
that somewhere you were standing
very close to me
that you were staring over my shoulder, somewhere beyond
this boundless, sounding dark
waiting to pronounce my names,
to tease out meanings from the skein
and tangle of this indigence―
to welcome my good looks, disfigurement, and grace
And I loved you for it, incompletely, in advance.
