Road

the street half-grinned at me, said
something about -
about the places it reached with its roots:
the black uneven teeth that smiled the creases in country lands
and riverbeds
and white horizons and white eyes
and then it turned to me, said
something about -
the slow parade of eyes
the solemn sounds passenger seats make on rainy days
something about the rain
through the crack through the window through the leaves
something intently that i cannot recall
about what we see
when we look to the sky:
about the endless asphault wings
that yawn over this cancelled land
and hold us alone to the sky.