Vinegar

a moment's panic, then the zen sets in
and everything is stations and rock gardens
and streams long covered in concrete
but still streaming unseen where roots reach for

The two:
a man on vacation and
the wasted slosh of overnight wine bottoming the bottle
a silver border leaflet advertising
the way that the sun reflects on the road
those cracks of tar that show where the earth rejected

too many years of silence to speak up now
too much advertising to be owner-operated
and too few watt-hours left to play the songs again
so goodnight and goodnight and goodnight

and instead of two, an elevated train of
golden shapes marks off the distance
like an old roman road, like a old brown book
like a treadless-bald tire, like the ruined wine's cork.

here:
a warm night air, rushing into the compartment
there:
friends shaking hands, touching arms, nodding
then moving on