It's frightening, isn't it?—
to find ourselves
so groundlessly romantic,
so swept up in the strange
and the dangerous
side of sanguine.
I mean, how conceited—
how reckless
can you get?
To sit there and wait
for just the right bird
to perch in your soul
and sing her unending
song without words?
Forget about
the thing with feathers—
perhaps hope
is that open road
piercing the horizon,
but coincidence
was finding
some time on your hands,
a tank full of gas,
and no map.
