Lots of things you don't want—
collisions, pre-recordings,
the body, an engine running down.
All makes and models

jaunt before you, celebrating,
a pastry of shapes
all free—
like the sky.

Away from the tar-bubbling road
that sky is free,
blue now before
cataclysm rain stains the statues

as clouds shape and un-shape,
and birds skim the browning fields.
All free,
those new blooms

shocking the branches
with rusty tufts,
invisible emissions,
exhaust,

the limping world's carburetor
excising wood, adding steel.
Look at that blue,
that green,

those crazy
tarnished leaves
pushing
through the chinks.