On nicotine,
the winds of an October night
humming as I speed
south on I-95,
I recall your words, Galway Kinnell,
and question this rush to arrive.
It is against this hour I want to go--
music in reverse measures, brake-pads
reluctant to suspend, even the sun overexposed
again--until all can be accomplished in waiting:
no summation or singing,
only myself, in the shadows of my life,
enjoying the tranquility of delay,
this prolonged moment
between desire and satisfaction.
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