A Westerly Sunday drive,
With Clara looking out the window
From her car seat,
And Billy Corgan screeching about
Possibilities,
2 McDoubles, a large Coke,
And enough distance to let
The deepest tire ruts
Of the mind give way
To dimly recalled,
Sandy farm roads,
Dead-ending at missile testing sites,
Wetlands,
And mountains

Not the sine wave of her calf
Or neck or spine,
Never the hair,
God forbid an eye simile,
Just the immortal fact of
Her charm, her complementing
Shapes and spiraling spirit
Still doubling my helix
Still crimping my s-curve