on arriving (it seems
that, somewhere,
you have heard this);
what's important
is the journey.
But I'm curious
what some of these
dingy paths—
these choked
city streets, oppressed
with traffic, for instance,
or the dull
late-March sidewalks,
all rimmed
with debris
and depressing,
headless tulips—yes,
I'm curious
what these sorts
of passages
would say about that.
Might they, in fact
countenance
a difference between
our striving and
our need
to stride? My, how
excessive, how quick-
ly complex
the simple physics
of our drive
for contentment gets.
