is like the wish to just keep eating, just keep
surfing, just keep dancing, playing baseball,
making love, watching the sun squeeze
from behind mauve mountains as a trophy trout
tail-walks across a lake that would be
agate-smooth, except for splashing fish.
The wish comes, naturally, when times are bad—
to get away, to start again, to leave the ground
we’ve over-farmed, the worn-out house,
the lover time has mummified. But it comes,
too, when good things lock us up too tight—
the wish to shut the car door softly, turn
the key and back out fast, not checking
the mirror until we’re bound . . . somewhere.
Too soon, I’ll have to stop for food, gas,
restroom, or just rest. Money will run out.
The road will end. Still, for a while,
I’m leaping—silver-winged and slippery-quick—
out of the sea, slicing through bright, salty air
while famished tuna churn the ocean’s gloss
to red froth, way down there.