a narrow focus trembles and fans across the vanishing point
where the empty hands of clouds scrape the low horizon,
painting blindly; painting paths he thought his feet could fall upon.
wild imagination, you lift the stars that grade the sea; the sky
that knows its vastness, but not what it blankets.
and the spokesman for vehicles is treading water beneath.
another yellow line swept away by tar, his feet following
a nuance coated in salinity; coated in a dark night who bellows
"follow me far and past a map's security; disregard the key".
and the spokesman for vehicles can't afford his own, his eyes -
pressed curtains shading his cheekbones, offering apology
but no regret to eternity.
the moon lifts a smile to guide bare soles, across the soul of the land
the hitchhiker knows only, the bare back of his hand.