Oscillating shadow-wires of the road
Extend their endless, beckoning fingers,
Guiding us to whatever salvation holds—
Whatever dies behind that quivering silver.

Those endless, roping black fingers
Melted onto asphalt, forever on the run
Toward the curtain of rising quicksilver,
Just a mirror for the sun.

So like Sal Paradise, for something we are on the run—
Filling our dusty, metal cups to the brim.
On the roads like mirrors for the sun,
Freedom-coasting like drunken seraphim

With tired epiphanies—seeing more than the dusty brim
Of horizon, seizing the expanse of baked flatlands,
Like the highest form of dejected seraphim,
Knowing the beaten weeds and American sand.

On the road, sifting life from the wind-raked flatlands
That guide us to whatever salvation holds,
Across and beyond the American sands—
We follow oscillating shadow-wires on the road.