He passes terminations, through loves,
through a lockbox degree of life,
heart rollicked shut as a music box to keep its fortune alone,
how all that young quickening was hell in him, now on him,
like house-arrest collar— eyes, nape, and tawny hands
warped thinly under breath’s friction,
in a silver suit and with worn hat,
leaving in the day the tracks of his game-print,
his feet and their rumba down block and block,
avenue to street, the month by year—
these are easily snowed tracks,
stamping but slight on the times,
but stamping, terminations and loves,
to tread still more on the ancient world,
the modern route,
the gamble of a movement on the isolated hill.
Rusty Truck 