On the Road
to Ormskirk I find pavement I have driven before
in another state, across a border, across an ocean
that divided me from some other place,
where I spoke to people in a brick building,
about a book I had written, before I knew
what writing was, when I kept thinking—then,
see, this is who I was, then; and now?
Now I see a field so bright I am left
wondering is that the colour I saw there:
in some other state, across that border, across this ocean?
Those brick buildings, there, surrounded by fields that were
yellow, no green. It was green all around,
and I knew I was floating in a sea of grass.
You begin to feel that you were in that place first,
now this place; one more real than another?
Or that every road you travel is pavement you have made:
the black tarmac, harsh in its blackness, black tar.
And when you rise over the next small incline,
you think: you can make this road again, you can,
you can can can…
Alicia J. Rouverol
25 May 2016
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