Of two or more on the path --

a road,
inventing itself
as steps are

invented--a
shoe coming out
of the blue

air, piece-
by-piece: sole
of hard,

synthetic
leather, laces of
twill, brown

as the shoe,
cuffs bringing
legs to the

fore. Slow
to discover what
the road is,

curling
between two
birch,

bark with
lichen, gray and
black, some

moss and
a lower branch,
broken,

hangs
loose, leaves
urged by

the wind.
Act after act
unfolding,

not threads
that are woven by
Sisters, but

lured into
being by the
memory

of what was
together: two
or more

pulled by
a gravity into
themselves.

Surprise is
the measure of
being

alive: the
pearled air, small
bits of

pollen, white,
insidious, filling
up space--

the sneeze
spewing out
bacteria,

latching onto
a lung, hand, ear,
making a

homestead.
They, too, pack along
the road,

unseen but
driving--lecherous,
compact--

toward their
end. One road,
everything or

nothing
planned. Excess
of meaning

strewn about
the place as after
an all-night

party: condoms,
bottles, cigarettes,
shirts, a

pencil to
write it all
down.

  —Tom Moore