Imagination ends in sudden places:
angles of the road where the blinking red
light creates a lull between the cars;
an unexpected moment in which to dread
the silence to the west, and all the lines
an idle mind inexorably traces
over the implications of empty air.
The wilderness where roads abruptly stop
beats with silent waves against the rote
street lamps, the neon sign in the jewelry shop.
On this frontier, you barely stay afloat
from one sign to the next, with the bizarre
sensation that you might at any time
turn a corner and find nothing there
and, with a click like film becoming caught
(a jumble of faded images pulled taut),
fall endlessly into a vacant square.