Itinerary

I don’t mind the ring roads or the strange intersections, filled in with radio music    tarmac skirting streetlight and         the dissolving      moon. Wing mirrors tell of running trees. My heart races in the heave of the wind. In the pivot of glass everything is so small and manageable. I think of an old song, of purple cows in far fields, I wonder what it’d take to cover miles and miles with no maps or destination. It is not easy anymore to forget or be free of the bear that roams the place where I come from.