They built a highway coast to coast,

East to west all the way:

Then they scrapped it,

Crumpled it,

And tried to bury it at sea.

It washed ashore and California claimed it:

They named it Highway Number 1.

They dragged it along the beach

And through the coastal range

Without straightening a single crease,

So like a paper clip

It grips

The shoulder of every mountain

And parenthesizes every gorge.

It waits in the dark of night

In blind turns and shatterings of gravel,

Oncoming hi-beams, suddenly

Appearing, then as quickly dissipating

In the eyes, strangely incapable of adjusting:

There is no clearing

Along Highway Number 1.

05 February 2008