On Tour (After Brighton MA)

Lusting for leg 

room, fresher 

air, better words,

and flanked by 

unmoved herds of freighters, 

progress plucks nowhere 

special on a lengthless sting.

But If rhythm is itself an instrument, 

then these medians form forgiving double bar lines,

inviting repetitions of the same scenery

with each fresh beat of time-

because miles, like measures, aren't crossed to be gained;

we were born to be moved, 

and it's death to arrive.