by James Applewhite

    for our daughter， Lisa

    As on a crowded Interstate the drivers in boredom¹

    or irritation² speed ahead or lag （taken with sudden

    enthusiasms for seventy-five）， surging ahead a little by

    weaving between lanes but still

    staying pretty much even， so too the seeker in language

    ranges ahead and behind——exiting and rejoining

    a rushing multitude so closely linked that，

    if seen from above， from the height

    of the jet now descending³， we present one

    stasis of lights： feeling our freedom though

    when seen from above， in the deepening twilight⁴，

    the pattern we bead⁵ is constant.

    So we have traveled in time， lying down and waking

    together， moved illusions， each cubicle⁶ with

    tables and chairs， beds where our cries arose

    lost in the surging engines.

    Yet the roomlight where we made our love

    still cubes us in amber⁷. Out of the averaging

    likeness⁸， Pavlovian salivation at the bell

    of a nipple， our lives extract their

    time-thread， our gospel-truth. While Holiday

    Inn and Exxon populate the stretch

    between Washington and Richmond with lights，

    I rewrite our pasts in this present：

    recalling your waking， dear wife， to find

    a nipple rosier⁹， we not yet thinking a child

    though impossibly guessing her features

    the feathery， minutely combed lashes¹⁰

    the tiny perfect nails， though not yet

    the many later trees at Christmas. Now

    I know only backwardly， inscribing¹¹ these sign-

    ings that fade as the ink dries.

    Remembering the graphlike beading of darkness，

    I recall the ways that time once gave us——

    distracted by signs for meals and clothing，

    travelers， heavy with ourselves

    defining the gift that bodies carry，

    lighting¹² the one， inner room， womb for

    our daughter. Seeing from above， I read

    this love our child embodies¹³.

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