I drive to the junkyard
at twilight, and I halt
and look out for myself
hard in the rusty gloom

the dead dead violence
of iron, mangled shadows
and ruin and uselessness
setting my teeth on edge

I think about my time
my mother and father
what time has done to me
and will do -- death is sure

and the headlights drain
like urine in the grass
I hunch, and press down
the outside gathers hurry

and this loose skull full
of old cars and twilght
what matter does it make?
where do I go from here?

what is the caring for
there are so many ways
to care, can hate it all
each minute and yet care?

I think about this here
uniqueness that I am
this me, the dear spot
this focus of lightyears

and cut the cold engine
and get out, and I walk
around to the deep swamp
where what is left slips

into dark water touched
by the night wind, watch
over the water the small
explosions of moonlight

and hear the chug-chug
of the June bullfrogs
like old machinery
half-sunken in the mud

and I am just by myself
at just this moment, here
in the high lucid weeds
down near the back road

Last Modified 5 June 2007
© David Lyttle 1981, 2007