The blue-black mountains are etched
   with ice. I drive south in fading light.
   The lights of my car set out before
   me, and disappear before my very eyes.
   And as I approach thirty, the distances
   are shorter than I guess? The mind
   travels at the speed of light. But for
   how many people are the passions
   ironwood, ironwood that hardens and hardens?
   Take the ex-musician, insurance salesman,
   who sells himself a policy on his own life;
   or the magician who has himself locked
   in a chest and thrown into the sea,
   only to discover he is caught in his own chains.
   I want a passion that grows and grows.
   To feel, think, act, and be defined
   by your actions, thoughts, feelings.
   As in the bones of a hand in an X-ray,
   I want the clear white light to work
   against the fuzzy blurred edges of the darkness:
   even if the darkness precedes and follows
   us, we have a chance, briefly, to shine.