Breathlike Just as the day could use another hour,

I need another idea. Not a concept

or a slogan. Something more like a rut

made thousands of years ago by one of the first

wheels as it rolled along. It never came back

to see what it had done, and the rut

just stayed there, not thinking of itself

or calling attention to itself in any way.

Sun baked it. Water stood, or rather sat

in it. Wind covered it with dust, then blew it

away. Always it was available to itself

when it wished to be, which wasn't often. Then there was a cup and ball theory

I told you about. A lot of people had left the coast.

Squirt conditions obtained. I forgot I overwhelmed you

once upon a time, between everybody's sound sleep

and waking afterward, trying to piece together

what had happened. The rut glimmered

through centuries of snow and after.

I suppose it was trying to make some point

but we never found out about that,

having come to know each other years later

when our interest in zoning had revived again.