Out
Jan 28 2010


In Canada
we navigate by preposition —
out west, up north, down south, back east.

Here, in the middle of nowhere
there is only one direction
— out.
Kind of like the north pole,
where no matter what direction you turn
you’re always facing south.

Here
the highway doesn’t stop
the trains are strictly freight
and it’s bush plane all the way
— short-hop, single prop
jury-rigged, and duct-taped.

Here
it’s all land-locked vacant lots and weather talk,
and a lame old dog
sleeping in the sun.
There’s a sidewalk on Main St.
that ends in a field on the edge of town,
where there are pump-jacks
instead of trees,
heavy gauge steel, and grease
nodding monotonously,
sucking up the last drop of oil.

So underneath
it’s spongy rock, squeezed clean.
And overhead, sky
360 degrees,
as clear and blue as sapphire.
It goes up to the edge of space
beyond the curve of earth
and out past the horizon,
encircling you.

Which is where you aim your pick-up
and floor it.
Yet, somehow, that flat dim line
never gets any closer.
You know;
you’ve tried it before.