xxviii–xxix. Concretion

xxviii.

A New Jersey idyll would begin

And end with Route 1.

The antipodean terminals, Florida and Maine,

Coalesce along that serpentine highway,

Forming a vortex of vagaries and strip mall surfaces,

Flat blots on a depthless image.

xxvix.

Until, fascinated, like a zombie enchanted,

The rear of a Jeep Liberty greets you.

The heave forward crawling across your memory,

Even still, like molten chocolate down a chin:

A durable presence, a slip of ink,

On a concrete canvas.