Darling machines we live with: cars
and bikes. We are a thing that moves.
We are not city-blood, we are not driven—
No, we drive.
We are a moving thing, the photo-makers,
animals with wheels and wings and eyes for motion,
and a sense of place that half pretends
a sense of home;
and then a sense of time. A weight to rid,
a traveller's itch. A road is like a river,
not a bridge. The current has the car-ship-
And look to match speed with the swinging sun
come day, come night the moon
or traffic lights on nights there isn't one
or satellites.
Just city streets and wheels and we are
things that move, so is a home a piece of ground?
So is the place where we first leave from
our home town?