Road stayed up late starry nights, listening to the sound of a simple stream, commonplace. Road was no hero: he made himself a place to go. no wonder. a bored study. astronomy. still, a traveler of colorless distress. Road wasn’t sure what he’d see, but he did. Road was tired. It was a long way to the ocean. Road drank he drank too much. In spite of this, he cared. He promised where he would be expected, and every moment since he decided he went there in his mind. Road went on the wagon. It was a long way to the drink. It’s how you imagine the spaces are, changing, or not. Nothing real is timeless. They have places. Road was used. descended mountains. crossed waters. designed boats. hard ships that rode in stead, anchored for the sense that rose at night, forgotten. well-disposed. starred skies improved his mind. described himself. opened doors open upon doors that opened. distended distance. displayed new horizons. destroyed illusions; know this, said Road, discussing his destiny as he almost sank, and did not, despair not. disdain not.

June 1972