Dear sleeping ones to westward,
at this moment one hour west
between the Agents of Light and
the Arsenal of Signs I look out
All the eastbound windows slumber on.
Roaming the rain-pelted woods
deep inside me
is a fear of black people
in my black soil
is a loneliness for women
Sometimes I have to rest my mind
on the hard earth, remembering
what the cave speaks. What the moon
illuminates. The light itself is
invisible all day,
waking only when
the running lights race my long asphalt shadow.
Something in me loves the dance
wrestling the power mower,
wielding the woodmaul
and never lives on only one side
of the border
I remember the Not-Seeing of Zen,
the Way of the Crooked Shaman,
of the Artificial Moon. I have not
forgotten the bulletproof limousines
of the Messiahs.
the earth's dumb gods are watching.
I can't do anything
therefore I am
the electrified fence of my fear I offer you
the thing I lack
Sleeping ones, you only see these
headlights wash across your ceiling
hours before dawn.
My friends, you only know me by my
vanishing. If you were only with me!
What a privilege it is
to be riding west
this morning with the daybreak in my mirrors!
Inside I balance
at the tip of the highest
on the Blue Ridge