This country's soul lies in the road
with a spirit as thick as interstate wind.
Blacktop twists like rivers; driving,

though, is no liquid. Blood recalls
its history, the beat echoes
in the tightest capillary,

but flotsam, broken and vagrant,
drifts as a deformed ghost of its
lost source. Neighborhoods turn over

faceless nomads, real estate signs
for Halloween decorations--
nothing tribal, just masked strangers.

Who still knocks on the door next door?
A road lies to a country's soul,
old spirits get lost in the thick.

Rivers and blacktop overshadow streams
and footpaths. The only cultures
that revere their elders have no freeways.

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