The Submarine Races

There might be

half a dozen cars tucked in the holes and hideouts provided

by love’s anarchy on racing slicks and loose dirt dug out of the bank,

maybe one lonesome jealous boyfriend tooling through

in a rumbling GTO with hammered fenders,

tossing beer cans, sticking a bare hand with a pistol

out the window--for no good reason--touching off a few rounds

that emerge in silence, beside the vast and empty sea.

The incalculable drag

of continents, ready to give at any time

as it must, the roots of old mountains ground

into valuable dust—the seal repeats in the slick dark

echoed off wet stone—

a vital force. Nearby, seabirds whistle through

toward feeding grounds, and birds the size of mice

carefully work over seeding blossoms in the ditch;

overlooked sources—there’s a wild calm,

there’s a black bird landing with utmost delicacy,

weighed and hinged in the wind

on top of a Bruno sandwich in a paper bag--

someone dropped it when they got out to piss

without quite stopping the car, hopping

with one foot inside and one kicking up dust,

a failure to commit, passing on to adventure and peril

embraced in the solid bosom of home

leaving the old fashioned with its layers of meat and cheese

in a bag half-open and rustled by wind.

#love #anarchy