For Light

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."