Traffic Corridor

Traffic Corridor

This is no river yet we speak of its flow.

The diastoles of the now distant city have no echo

in the movement of this artery.

What image other than itself can contain it?

This conduit that connects then creates a boundary

as absolute as deep, fast water.

A child in a suburban backyard, looking at this

will find no image for grey, middle terms or conditions.

This has none of the liquid recursives of a stream.

The point of attention shuttles

from lane to lane.

The world passing like words on a page

in long, dopplered cries.

As a child, I heard it.

The passing of fast transports,

the chorus of smaller cars,

broadcasting great arcs of amplitude.

A constant presence

below the call of a bird's last evening song,

above the noise floor of the listening mind,

barely above sleep.