Quaker Bridge road winds toward Mercer Street
Oblivious of the connections it makes.
Memory trails off like fragments of a conversation
Overheard but unlistened to.
Smooth black tar knifes through misty fields.
A trap set for small animals by men who no longer hunt,
A dark artery designed to contract space and multiply time.
Who will inherit the time that is saved?
Will we save enough time to remember
All the little things we have crushed under our wheels?
We have paved the world with insidious pathways
Whose numbers outstrip possible destination.
Symbolless we hurry down the Labyrinthine highways
Of imagined deeds.
At the end of the road we find Ariadne,
A black spider attending a derelict gas station.
AUGUST 1976
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