A poem is an engine,
a train threading a landscape
that threads the passengers
whose minds are screens
on which are projected:
1. white dog racing alongside the engine
2. antelope grazing in a field
3. serpentine coils of the Colorado River
…stacks of brittle stone, pine trees
and crumpled cars,
sage brush and tumbleweed
then corn in infinite rows
converging upon the horizon,
Silos erect, brim seed;
You are here—
an infinite number of points
between A and B.
Horizontal movement
as if along a prone ladder;
we are drawn through space,
a weaver’s shuttle on steel,
to make us pass through
or beyond things.
Sun rises over the field
through the exhalations
of a coffee cup;
Lord God Bird
stretches out his wings,
Winging and singing
over this golden land.