To NY

fresh tar on gravel, smoking
and wrapping these men with shovels,
clinging to their boots.
sun slanting like winter,
the twinkling of clean cars in stand-still
traffic. we are making up the miles
as we go, in slow motion,
under a single contrail rising from the horizon,
a jet blowing rings like the smoke
from a cigaret in a cold still room,
fingers numb, eyes half-closed.

every little thing, dust
and my eyes are burned through.
my head is full of noise
and what I wanted to say
is dying in my throat, stuck
in the dark forest under my ribs.