every time i go home
i run out of road again;
it's only when jet engines roar
that i imagine i have a home at all.
the whole night, up, thinking of
nothing but roads, imagining
roads that go on without end,
paved like a motorcar's whiskey dream
soaking wet in dreamless sweats
thinking: what kind of fallen thing
what kind of disgrace wants to stretch
and stretch herself into a road
and a net all at once?