Highway 1

There are shards of accidental meetings that dazzle as they do, while
Driving alone. Glass broken into pinhole lights,
A Christmas-tree-string in a late summer sun,
When winter rains flood and takes it all away,
There go my memories into some other sea.
No recording, and no withholding, and no preserving
Whatever it was haunting the road.
Rubbed out pencil scratches on lost discretions. Where I’ve been,
I don’t know.
Some sleepy-eyed Buddha of mine might mind me to drive
Neither a bit too fast or either way too slow,
Only breathe and go.
I won’t claim to be good with direction.