Interstate Highway

    for our daughter， Lisa

    As on a crowded Interstate the drivers in boredom

    or irritation speed ahead or lag （taken with sudden

    enthusiasms for seventy-five）， surging ahead a little by

    weaving between lanes but still

    staying pretty much even， so too the seeker in language

    ranges ahead and behind——exiting and rejoining

    a rushing multitude so closely linked that，

    if seen from above， from the height

    of the jet now descending， we present one

    stasis of lights： feeling our freedom though

    when seen from above， in the deepening twilight，

    the pattern we bead is constant.

    So we have traveled in time， lying down and waking

    together， moved illusions， each cubicle with

    tables and chairs， beds where our cries arose

    lost in the surging engines.

    Yet the roomlight where we made our love

    still cubes us in amber. Out of the averaging

    likeness， Pavlovian salivation at the bell

    of a nipple， our lives extract their

    time-thread， our gospel-truth. While Holiday

    Inn and Exxon populate the stretch

    between Washington and Richmond with lights，

    I rewrite our pasts in this present：

    recalling your waking， dear wife， to find

    a nipple rosier， we not yet thinking a child

    though impossibly guessing her features

    the feathery， minutely combed lashes

    the tiny perfect nails， though not yet

    the many later trees at Christmas. Now

    I know only backwardly， inscribing these sign-

    ings that fade as the ink dries.

    Remembering the graphlike beading of darkness，

    I recall the ways that time once gave us——

    distracted by signs for meals and clothing，

    travelers， heavy with ourselves

    defining the gift that bodies carry，

    lighting the one， inner room， womb for

    our daughter. Seeing from above， I read

    this love our child embodies.