3253. MAKER OF ROADS

MAKER OF ROADS
And things I've forgotten : lost lamps
in the dark and crossed paths after
midnight. He who covets less, covets
most. The man who breaks the plow
builds the roads, gets to see around
the bends, to peer over the tops of
hills, gets farther along, to see the
end of things : father-preacher,
lost-land maniac, blind Teresias
himself extending hands to calm
the sea, crossing the horizon with
intensity. Long lost bags of kroners
and gold; everything alike should be
such a mess, in such a dark'ling
moment as this.
-
I was born where no one should have
been - seawall, Kill Van Kull, tugs and
tankers, splashing ripples salt-wall froth.
As a small, new fly, just out of its break,
I strolled, ambled, and learned to fly -
straight enough, I guess, to hold me.
Behind my back, the squat four-story
housing projects before my face. The
waterfront amusement park,
Staten Island's grimy face.
-
My own taste...Bayonne's funny-fraught
trace, the solid bridge above my head,
aslant my manner, black with cars,
and all going nowhere in a skid - one
steel, silver moment slivered in
successful time. A promise, for some,
that the 'rock of the world
was founded securely
on a faery's wing' -
as Jay Gatz once
had said.