For Light

Dennis Saleh

There are no lights and no names
  for lights that might be here.
   What moves, moves in the dark;
   what motion does is dark.

 For hours the lights have gathered,
 scattered, blinked-
 (been towns, names
 nobody knows, fireflies snapping by;

 all the same, all things to the cars
 moving with me here)
 -and settled like weights
 to some bottom of the dark behind me.

 Or gone out under a blanket,
 a hand that drags over them.
 There are ways of going out
 for each of them. I count the ways

 and imagine the highway holds me,
 that I'm driving through a black crowd
 of ivy; that I might slip
 and drive forever through the damp.

         WHITE APPLE

The cow with a hole in its side listens,
the new baby is crossing the road.
Where they've put the ground he steps
lightly: one tree, a long row of vineyard,
one belt whirring "grapes, grapes, grapes."