Trucks on either side of us like fists, like cities.
Steep green against the highway. Cows
and caved-in, slat-gray shanties
Someone hung her voice up on a hook.
Willows dip their limbs in the shallows
Shall we gather, shall we gather, shall we
Blue cracks in the plaster sky and
everything opening along the road:
violets, trillium, azalea, the guts of deer
have become one.
I’m not in my body yet, she said. As if without skin, she said.
Not solid. Like
this, and she opened a book by a painter
who renders herself as skinless.
“How do I know I’m not a brain in a vat?” says the skeptic.
“Because I have two hands,” says the empiricist.
At the rest stop men are like trucks, their bulk set
smack in the center of the walk, enormous boots.
We have to cut among them their talk
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