The Highway That Is Herself

Toujours pour la premiére fois
                                                   —Andre Breton
                                                                     For herself on her birthday


You, yes, you sir, are the lucky one—
Allowed to drive this highway—
that runs not east, and not west—
again and again. The town signs
are your old friends on older sticks.
You search the valleys where her sun
holds light until almost day
arrives and you can almost rest.
There’s no way to count the times
her lost lakes played their pretty tricks.
You are never there yet, never exactly done.
Her long straight stretches delay
your happy progress and the next crest
is always just ahead. All that time
linger with her while watches tick
away days. You carry her on your tongue
wanting the flavor of each pothole on the way,
without saying this is good or that’s best.
Touch each crevice, each salty line.
Just keep driving—go get your kicks.