Cars are driving in every direction
and back in on themselves.
The tenuous concrete pylons
that hold up these overpasses,
the queer marriage of granite
limestone, iron that outclasses
the natural stone, the grasses
on all sides and in crevices, however
scrub, that grow still. That decant
still from their liquid forebears
and thin the way the moving looks.
And the self is a thing projected
in a sweatshirt. The zipper made
from metal too that holds both sides
together hangs as languidly
as if connected. As ingratiating
moving things on roads or us too.
