I am not far
from No Man’s
Last Gas & Grill.

When you’ve gone
as far as you can,
there you find
all the poets
you have loved:
Yeats, who yodels
no tomorrows,
and Dylan Thomas,
who’s still drinking
for all the others
who sing in turn
verba sua supersubstantalia
that, like our daily bread,
keep them alive.

Then, as if you know
where you’re going,
you wave goodbye
and leave the poets
in the dust.

The only sign
along the road
is a Great Horse
of the Sea,
baring its teeth
at the dawn,
ever and never
coming on.

You run out of gas
but travel fast
and see the night
with Dylan’s eyes.