The interior road
Is wild, the wind is raw,
But when the headlights flowed
Like saws
Through strata, what flashed by
Was more than mere debris
And riddled signs,
                            was sky
And the sweep of the blue sky
And sun that clung like hair,
And dizzy rocks
And the dervish windfalls,
And working girls
Like hot-dogs on the docks
And white sand, and beachballs
Bouncing and whirling there
Gorgeous, big as worlds

That shrank with a roar
When hit by a hot car.
What do we journey for?
And how far?

Last Modified 1 July 2007
© David Lyttle 1959, 2007