I drove through fog in the Wet Green Mountains,
America unspooling itself from the ether,
Silos and steeples and such, such as it were.
(Who knew it was so close to home? That is to say, nearby?)
And at the top of the mountain, cleared fields.
A cloud had touched down, no other way to describe it –
(“The wet thumbprint of God the Almighty Motherfucker”)
And threatened to asphyxiate the whole picturesque shebang
With its still and violent breath.
But the whiteness! There is the beauty
And the inevitability of death -
Restores my faith. I will vote again in November!
Past silo and porch I sail into America’s very heart,
Opaque and inexhaustible – the two of us dying,
Leadfoot Daydreamer versus the Gossamer Speed Demon.