Do not describe the sunset, regardless. Never
write about the buttery moonrise,
especially near the beginning: everyone
just switches off, and if they don’t
they should.

Do not mention war; any of the many.
Those possibilities are nothing to do with me.
They belong to others, to a family friend
who knows mountainsides blooming
great mushrooms of dust.

Everyone has had enough of trees...

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In cars, I'm him.
I make the shapes he makes –
one-handing the steering wheel
as if grasping some mane,
I cup the gear stick bulb
like it's a brandy bowl
and coast to junctions
clutch disengaged
scared as sharks to stop,
though on open road
I’ll box in better cars than mine,
a sudden stickler for the limit
I slap down and squeeze your knee
celebrating damming flow,
c...

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