Blank wall, forever enshrouding the further
blank walls. Precursor and plane of projection,
onto your surface the elegant fading, that felling

of feeling, that nimble nausea, mind weeding:
I drift back to the draft of other places
at the least needling it seems, the radio

or CD traces me into some other city: San
Francisco at twenty-one, peach and tan
stucco buildings, fainting by a chain link

fence; opening bright red eyelids to sunlight
and a giant semi that hauled sheep in Arizona,
gawking and stumbling towards the silver blinding mass

with nose holes, the snouts and sharp smell,
singling out a few, sticking my hand into
the cages to feel their sweaters and continue

down the dirt road from the Texaco. Why keep
these around?