Its as if the drive lasts forever
at sunset, not quite warm enough to roll down the windows,
the radio set to traffic report, reporting traffic.
The driver, a cypher, the other passengers in first class,
me in the back.
Or maybe me in the trunk, in a bag, a suitcase, a photo album, tucked away in a book,
or in a sidecar, in parallel.
We could be passing, driving crazy -
we could take the high road,
up atop the Palisades, an escarpment that once seemed eternal
the Earth itself.
Now, half brought-down by real estate dealers,
brought down themselves by bankers.
Now just sores on the old stone, these pits and blasted lots are haunted by dreams of condos and co-ops,
by past lives with little herds of rabbits, yellow and white honeysuckle,
streaming unchecked down brown shoulders in braids, like aromatic hair.
Now they are old shoulders, the freckles are liver-spots.
Now the hair is coming loose at the roots, the rocks are falling.
I can't fall asleep, but I can't wake up.
We could be going somewhere, we could,
but maybe I am half-dreaming myself, only half-alive,
wishing for the lost past, or the inevitable future, the only thing that can't be interpreted, simply because it's the only thing that's certain to be.
Once upon a time, somebody loved me.