Through the window, while the sun sets, bus ride from Oaxaca

A highway cannot be poetry
because it is ultimately practical;
land, on the other hand, yes:
accidental, gesture and falter,
changing itself with the broken and necessary hunger
of an animal heart.

The gravel in the median is uniformly grey.
This median is accidental
and necessary, not built, but occurred—
side effect of road—-
there because something must happen to fill forgotten places
and because this highway was made to part,

combed out with gravel that
scatters from its aloof black
skin: snake and heat of snake.
From above, mountain ranges form
ridges and craters
and junk of passage marks it strangely
like crushed satellites in the shape of pop cans,
a violent dam of ripped tire rubber.

To dream will be like this,
aside and perpetually
seemingly
endangered.

If you can bear the pressure of gravity
and the tearing wind
you may traitor road
late at night
when other cars are ghosts,

then lower the hand, not to grab
but to dip,
like a gourd
drinking its waterfall of warm white dust.

Feel how like drinking
and how impossible,
spelling with the lips.

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