There are such things as mountain wastes, thick, rugged and empty.
Bank and corner so much that there is no active thought.
To run those roads endlessly, would there be any point?
What is landscape when one moves through it quickly?
What do I do with the memory of it? To be lonely and seek it further,
Buffeted by cold against leather, near hallucinating on the back of the Motorcycle. Small village of old houses, burned trailers, what might have been A post office. A blur of a creek and then gone. Back into the woods.
Hollowed out western Carolina, ragged solace east Tennessee.
Perhaps I yearned to crash, to transform into a wraith of those hills.
A shining streak blaring through valley and comet over hilltop.
The expression of wind piercing a pine grotto,
The blue lightning cold of water over stones.