As we leave New York City
the lights are dividing themselves into
those that climb into the sky
and those that slink along the ground.
Billboards footnote the landscape
of churning weeds-
the forest's pitch-belly
that recalls that ring of souls
who turned against themselves
so that "Alive with Pleasure"
seems all the more ironic,
illustrating the happy life
of escape and destruction,
until we are almost duped again
into believing its better to die
than to fade into the dark.
For, so the argument runs,
since we are perpetually at risk
of our soul spilling out of us
shouldn't we toast every breath?
(I would agree only with the last.)
As the chain of headlights
reflect off guard-rails
into the arms of thorns and bramble
we are forced to rework memories
into something we do not want
and to wonder if each light of earth
really has its inverse in heaven,
if they are perfect vessels,
as Cunizza said, and truly
content in their spheres
or only dead points flashing
in a curtain of felt?