Cars, Planes, Trains . . .

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lugged away or mounted bareback or saddled up

straddled and spurred on to whatever will get you

from here to there, the goings going on

in some hotel room somewhere while others go

on about their different business it could be

anywhere really, urbane or rural, inside or out,

a darkened phone booth or Juliet’s tomb,

a closet or the rim of a canyon,

places you would never think, or even think of,

the cubicle next to yours, or yours

— beds made and unmade so

many times they groan when we board them again

the tangled hammock nest of ropey dreams

or lowly monster wallow in an inky pit,

or rented cot’s timeless repose

where we lie lightly where we lay

the burden of the other down

all rut and abutment,

the pith pitch and the gist of it

the beveled body’s unique incline to

the stark incitements of some

other creature’s slightest encouragement.

© 2000 Bruce Taylor and Nerve.com, Inc.