Horizon in Motion
Stephen Wing
In the dead hour between radio stations
the passenger gazes out, and out, and suddenly
begins to see again:
rusting stallions
retired to a mountain pasture, wheelless ruins,
“Love” and “Peace” corroding
between the headlights of a psychedelic van
Days flick back like the yellow dashes
between lanes
“Love,” it said
in spray-paint on the overpass, a leap
of the heart, whoever hung over the bridge
catching the cold whiff of the can,
pumping that old desperation of the young,
“Love”
The passenger gazes ahead:
solid white and yellow lines hum every curve
in unison, that song that is a traveler’s
only boundary
The way is narrow
Even the body breathing at his elbow,
loose fingers cradling the wheel,
can’t travel with him to this musing sunset, this
drowse of horizon
“Peace,” cautious
black capitals in the headlines again today,
hopeful and noncommittal, locked
behind the little window in the vending machine,
hostage to old men whose name for victory is
“Peace”
But he remembers
the way a child’s hand fell into his
as her daddy raced those mountain curves
chasing the bastard that passed him, love as real
as the heat in the car against the cold pane--
an old man whose hand gripped his with a pulse
he couldn’t tell from his own, true peace, silent
kindred after two hours’ talk--
The gate is strait
He closes his eyes and leans, breathing in, and begins
to feel again: cool wind is rushing by
on the other side of the glass
Whether that keyhole-slot in earth or
the spiral eye of the galaxy,
the passenger hurtles unerringly homeward
sometimes motionless, sometimes faster
than radar
(published in my book Four-Wheeler & Two Legged, Southeastern Front, 1992)
the passenger gazes out, and out, and suddenly
begins to see again:
rusting stallions
retired to a mountain pasture, wheelless ruins,
“Love” and “Peace” corroding
between the headlights of a psychedelic van
Days flick back like the yellow dashes
between lanes
“Love,” it said
in spray-paint on the overpass, a leap
of the heart, whoever hung over the bridge
catching the cold whiff of the can,
pumping that old desperation of the young,
“Love”
The passenger gazes ahead:
solid white and yellow lines hum every curve
in unison, that song that is a traveler’s
only boundary
The way is narrow
Even the body breathing at his elbow,
loose fingers cradling the wheel,
can’t travel with him to this musing sunset, this
drowse of horizon
“Peace,” cautious
black capitals in the headlines again today,
hopeful and noncommittal, locked
behind the little window in the vending machine,
hostage to old men whose name for victory is
“Peace”
But he remembers
the way a child’s hand fell into his
as her daddy raced those mountain curves
chasing the bastard that passed him, love as real
as the heat in the car against the cold pane--
an old man whose hand gripped his with a pulse
he couldn’t tell from his own, true peace, silent
kindred after two hours’ talk--
The gate is strait
He closes his eyes and leans, breathing in, and begins
to feel again: cool wind is rushing by
on the other side of the glass
Whether that keyhole-slot in earth or
the spiral eye of the galaxy,
the passenger hurtles unerringly homeward
sometimes motionless, sometimes faster
than radar
(published in my book Four-Wheeler & Two Legged, Southeastern Front, 1992)
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Stephen Wing lives in Atlanta, where he serves on the boards of the Lake Claire Community Land Trust and Nuclear Watch South. He is the author of five poetry collections, most recently Washed in the Hurricane, which combines his wilderness experiences with reflections on climate change. Visit him at StephenWing.com.
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