Popping Goldenrods, On the Road, May ’20

Try it for yourself,
Now. I’d tell you to do it “at home,” but 
You can’t, so go get in a car, get it up to speed. 
60 will do. Ready?

Then let fall your brimming skull, loose
From their fasts those stalwart neck muscles of yours. Hmm. 
Maybe in your case, a heavy-browed Praxiteles would wheel around
And ask a sweaty pupil to redo the tendons. The skin on master’s 
Palms softens as his gaze hits them, hungrily. One finger bend,
And the energy needed to holster that visionary boundlessness arcs, audibly. 

Anyway, for now,
Let’s let the head lean back. Close those eyes, love. 

Oops! You can’t be driving. Okay. 
That settled, tilt the mind’s cup back,
Yawing, yawing. Ready the proscenium for the show.
If you’ve got the sun right (and refer yourself to the attached calibrations,
If you need), you ought now be entering a dazzlement.
A kaleidoscopic tunnel, all hot reds and popping goldenrods,
Figmentary loves of your whirling lenses.

How would I describe their distribution? You belabor me,
Sweetness, but mark their compaction, the space between
The bundles, where pure air alone transmits. 
Unfamiliar? No, impossible, as this is the view known to
Every spellbound babe. Your dog even knows this and faces it sternly.

Before we close, you should know
That relatively few men have seen as you have, an
Untruth in all the important ways, but a proposition
We are blessed to have hold here. At Promontory Point,
Some hilarious son of the west will look to the head of steam on the horizon,
And espy for himself this your view; 
Of all the generations since Adam his may be the first to do so.

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