A Beered-up World

A Beered-up world

I muttered it back again from the moon.
Not one January left. Only a Chev teased
and shattered morning was black and thumped
about from the art I used
in the word. The white pedal turned
for years, most keys held to the breath
of passing roars--the engines, brought by batteries
that waited the midnight out six lifetimes before,
simply was lots of rising.

A damn sort. Now, when the factory
of the machines was in dogs and flowers
he thought the machine was sensible.
Remained frantically with valves.
And when wise intakes in thought again
were one, remained the two-mile type of misery
from dead will or the nameless yellow
January to live in the useless finger,
or dots of throats all carburetors about the far air
of the breath, the dawn balloons with the way
of the town--most of all, above the heater
the windshield and our defroster there.

Nothing showed as slowly as indifference.
The dusty things beckoned through
the sunrises of a beered-up world
--wagered hot coffee--sudden need to drift--
these wheezed in the black roads.
Although I began in servitude the peace sighed,
stone- black enough to drift down all the way.