A Momentary Lapse
July 22 2008


On the undivided highway
past the “last gas” sign,
just rocks and trees and a gravel shoulder,
it feels impossibly slow
— the land immense,
your progress, imperceptible.

The tipping point
of dusk,
the sky deep blue, and luminous;
which just deepens the darkness down here
— the road difficult,
the headlights
feeble.
Then night
free-falling in from space,
when lights come at you for miles,
roaring past
in a white-knuckle blast of blindness.

The white line is hypnotic,
especially in darkness
reflecting back.
And reminding you
of your own thin white line
— all your life
hanging
by a thread as fine as spider silk.
Perhaps fighting-off sleep
or turning-up the heat,
nudging the wheel an eighth-of-an-inch as you reach,
breaking the painted line.

You drive in this splendid solitude
of steel and glass;
yet utterly depend
upon every passing stranger.