By Martha Ronk
Senior Lecturer, Graduate Writing
The film breaks into dialogue after long stretches
Of the sort of silence associated with wet roads
And the sounds of tires hissing in the trees as
The wind’s an artificial product of moving toward the horizon
As enclosure’s only a category of mind.
And then the final exchanges about the weather first
And tentative efforts to snare the other’s litany of complaints
The very act of driving was designed to eliminate any sense of.
The Moon over L.A.
The moon moreover spills over onto
The paving stone once under foot.
Plants it there one in front.
She is no more than any other except her shoulders forever.
Pull over and give us a kiss.
When it hands over the interchange
She and she and she. A monument to going nowhere,
A piece of work unmade by man. O moon,
Rise up and give us ourselves awash and weary—
We’ve seen it all and don’t mind
From behind the glass they are unmitigatedly still
or passed over. Pico is another.
Driving is to driving as from one end to the other
over bridge and vale. Their eyes unnervingly swerved.
Celan says over wine and lostness, over
The running out of both.
I don’t find you behind any eyes you open.
After the earthquake it was closed to traffic.
I look at the eyes, the sex, the eyes.
We lap at it fearful of running out,
Gulps of red wine. He says
What can the translator mean by over?