No Help for That | Jackie Clark

The roadways finesse our tongues bashfully;
through shagged over-growth & reasoned slopes
its roping waves with white arms & awaits
attention. There are markings along the way.
A sense of sabotage leaks & travels from ravine
to ravine, running carefully. Casualty, tree trunks
& trash ironed flat by chance. It is true the day
ends & that a harness is only worth what it holds.
We are belted & moving forward with just a handful
of matches & nothing worth striking, while amnesty
dreadfully follows anticipating open windows.