All the spent calendars shingle behind me
like year-old unread newspapers, still neatly folded
And more and more I dream of being lost in Southern towns
driving around looking for a place that sells beer and apples.
My driving is sporadic and wild; the car keeps changing
into a convertible, its color is all over the place
Truly a dark fate is the only way to get directions
apparently, my father is still alive and is waiting for me to
wake up. Not a good sign.
I never did wake up
I always pretend that I am in the right place
I suspect I am still that day-bed scholar who goes shooting
on the weekends with others
but mine is the only gun without sights
There is always construction in those towns of
closed off streets, the cranes lifting things into the air
The Southern girls are all laughing in their pretty dresses
Whenever I drive by; I drive by again and again
I wonder if they are always like that
the streetlights have their own agenda
fast changing sequences that I learn to ignore
It might be important, I should have translated it by now:
A soldier assigned to a dangerous post.