Driving Eye


Caught in a slip of particulars,
say, between the dirt road
and the brand-new

Seven-Eleven, a bucket
of lotus, three shades of red
in the mudbank giving way to

workers, faces hidden
behind kerchiefs, binding
the copper tines of another

half-constructed building,
this fretwork, that rooftop’ s

progress up and up, the eye riding
a motor’ s rev, coming to
a woman who leans

over the seventh story’ s edge
for the pulley rope’ s
basket of rice or rubber mallets,

then a sweep down into
cattle now, their beige skin
over bones, the look of loose tents,

or taking in a bronze
Buddha, hands folded over the First

National Melting Company,
the red gate, black gate,
red, retina arriving

at a man throwing straw
clumps to earth so the seeds
don’ t wash away,

and the light behind him washing

and this desire, a gaze
shot along the border which is

shaped like a question mark,
cramped with hotels, pink neon

grammars blinking
Alpha, Alpha, Alpha Is

The Bank For You And Your
Needs, another quick catch,

the glance stippled
with disappearances,

a girl who lifts her skirt
to bathe near the bus stop,

a fire
in the field of bulldozers,

an eye trying to fix itself
as the vehicle turns,

the mind from
nascent to nation,

drifting in instances, a grit
in wind worrying
the surface, the facts,

out to finger the invisible
gap we would inhabit, pulsing always
in between.