Terrain.

A straw of a road
ghosttracked with the impulse of destination
winding away from me,
a languish and a stretch.

The fleet-blur sparkle of this day
distracting as it charms
stealing and forgiving me,
a deviance and an undercutter.

The bustle and balm
of this entertainment boredom
fogs the aerials and the toyland
of patriarch routes and expectation villages.

Circling in a gull hover, 
buffeted but stubborn
unless
a retch, 
unless
a violence,
of no and of now and of not,
tipping headstones into signposts
held by root and soil and skin and yesterday
to the unmapped
to an emptywhere
to find you and mostly me unwound.