You rode the midnight Greyhound
through American backwaters.
Past hobo squatters
inside their high lonesome vault (profound
infinite firefly field). No one
forgets their bent magnetic
North, your epileptic
adolescence (endlessness). The sun,
the moon, the Pope, the Emperor...
some bright Hiawatha rider,
beaming father-figure –
Federigo in Jerusalem, hugging an Emir...
History slides by on billboards,
The Greyhound hums, curves
down Vanishing Road – the Lord’s
a baby buffalo. Around the track
the sprinters skim – a blear
of fog machines, the air
nine tenebrae. One shady (humpback)
tesseract glides into Galilee –
or Miriam smile (she
saw her tall cousin suggest a V);
the mirror of authority
in heaven & on earth
wells supernatural mirth –
sweet chariot of Lady Liberty.