Sound Wall

The last place I’d look for vision

is meadow, then gray. Earth berm,

then river. City, then crack. A pictography

of exhaust tars these panels until the hills

burst into pine. I’ve seen entire miles

made of underpass and spray paint,

the drainpipes whose concrete still wears

the names of lovers the men who hauled it

once held. I’ve driven this world into slivers

of sky, into masonry block veined finely

with vines. I ride, autumn halfway

into the arson of itself, the passenger window

cracked until wind sounds like fire.

I miss the exits trying not to see signs

that staying alive is the same as staying lost.