I drive on the road
in circles carved in my head all night.
I study the white guide marks,
the cluster of rocks and rubble left
of pedestrian walks on either side.
The horizon rolling and collapsing on itself.
My eyes fixed on the road ahead:
the dark tar absorbing day and night,
summer and winter.
There are some trees beyond the rubble,
some sky directly above—
I am sure an ocean,
if I look at the rearview mirror.
But circles are dangerous.
Yes, circles cannot be trusted; from them,
gazes must not be lifted.
All night I lay upon my bed,
asleep, driving.
The road deepening as the trees erode it