Journey from New Haven

The Connecticut Turnpike Stretches out on the edge Of Long Island Sound Like a flexed arm or A river shying at the sea.

This is as close as we come.

We slither into traffic, The pitched city now Immovably behind – there. Then: the city gone.

Where had we planned to go? There are too many answers.

The cool smut of indifference Conditions the air we breathe: We say nothing For an hour or so Until, at last, The radio informs Us that we are alive. I'm glad to hear the news.

Still: a dull clamour, Rehearsals for hysteria. I remember you hovering, Panicky, in the kitchen.

The toll-collector Wears a bleak grin As a kind of protection.

Now your head lolls Against the steamy glass.

The towns mark our time, Each one fastened to The earth like a signal flag.

I want to tell you: We are always moving – Why is it – this is As close as we can come.

We drift down into The outskirts of Manhattan – New dawns . . . . dead letters.

The rain beats down, amazed At its own perseverance.