An hour before dawn
I finish packing, take the garbage out, unplug the computer
and exchange "Good
an early-rising neighbor. Then I drive across Fremont Bridge to a friend's house, awake when
I arrive. He takes me to the airport, driving among a
conspiracy of red eyes.
A hour later, seatbelt
secure, the man sitting next to me is discussing the sale of Portland's Dry Dock 4, as
we yaw over New Mexico's orogenies, the landscape slowly flattening
into long roads
of sere Texas monotony.
In Houston Airport
I look for a book of puzzles.
From here to Ft. Lauderdale, an anthropologist tells me of her
trip to Taos, that little town with one road running up and down
its spine, and life is lived close to the bone.
could have fooled