William Greenway





I start to listen.

But heís doing the I Ching, and the sixty-four

hexagrams.  For a moment I see the great

mandala like a perimeter, out past Stone Mountain,

but never knowing which to take.  So you circle.

One goes to the theater, one to a lake where you

catch bass with pink worms.  These are early on.

Later, itís like youíre out in the middle

of nowhere, gas stations with greasy

restrooms, some with no entrance back on.

(You see the people whoíve taken these

leaning on the rails of overpasses.)

There are trucks, of course, like

gray whales, and when it rains

youíre driving under water, looking

for the green signs to the top, holding

your breath.  When you hear the

thumping beneath you like a slung rod,

turn the radio up and keep going.


But thatís as far as we take it.  He says,

"Write a poem."  I say, "You too,"

and then we walk out into the office, where

we hear one secretary say

to another, "What goes around, comes around."

Is this coincidence? I ask you.

Copyright © 2003 William Greenway.  All Rights Reserved.

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