Road

This is what poetry is (says the Road), a laying down of uniform pattern across a land you can't control but which you think it best to flatten. It's far from vivid. Look at the whole flamboyant forest! Look at the paths that can't be uttered by a mouth and at the scattered arcs of light more integral to this wide planet than words will ever be. Your lines? Like railroad tracks that cut the bracken, bring something through, then disappear. No one knows what speck was taken or where it moved, and no one cares.