名人诗歌|Interstate Highway

for our daughter， Lisa

As on a crowded Interstate the drivers in boredom¹

or irritation^{2 speed ahead or lag （taken with sudden}

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

weaving between lanes but still

stayingpretty much even， so too the seeker in language

ranges ahead and behindexiting and rejoining

a rushing multitude so closely linked that，

if seen from above， from the height

of the jet now descending^{3， we present one}

stasis of lights： feeling our freedom though

when seen from above， in the deepening twilight^4，

the pattern we bead^{5 is constant.}

So we have traveled in time， lying down and waking

together， moved illusions， each cubicle^{6 with}

tables and chairs， beds where our cries arose

lost in the surging engines.

Yet theroomlight where we made our love

still cubes us in amber^{7. Out of the averaging}

likeness^{8， 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 rosier^{9， 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， inscribing^{11 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，

lighting^{12 the one， inner room， womb for}

our daughter. Seeing from above， I read

this love our child embodies^13.