The Highway, Bordered

A road to nowhere . . . life itself?

the Highway, bordered
comes in slumps --
pelting past my peripherals
it swings itself to humming sleep
in powerline intimation of slumbering Cicadae:
their shining four-fold throats
a stainless tuning-fork
unbounden and slapped silly like
the sound of a shot guitar steel,
stretched into an intimate registry;
wooden Dogs in puppy-panting
heat fall to howling serenades,
and half-baked Fish pull prematurely out
pistola and shoot the rapids of
coolcats gingerly gesticulating past,
testing pointless toes in the Matthew, Mark, and Luke
warm waters are bloating up the Trans Canada Resovoir
beside the shrugging Road -- and
of necessity, is leading no one
but itself