More of the same fields rise

when driving past. Skim over

the ancient junk piles,

measures of time and waste from

the rural professor,

the ubiquitous poverty

of ideas about how to clean this

abandonment and romance.

Romance is not actually happening

here or anywhere.

Repose inside the lack of touch,

the lack of poet body

like a house slowly eroding into the ground,

present and unknowable.

Put two hands on the steering wheel

at whatever time seems to offer

the most control. Get to work

on time.