Highway
 
Starting from whose timber end a hunt for 
Signposts, suddenly, at whose virgin age, 
Your fifteen stripling cradle years cut 
 
Through a detour from the false forest trail, 
And begin a search which but leads, always, 
To an ambush. . .while the quarry (who?) 
 
Quivers from beneath the bulrush bush, 
Unafraid to be seen and be sought for, 
And beckons from beyond the highway curve 
 
Like a warning headlight.  In a traffic 
Of abandon, she pulls over to your side 
Of the street, suddenly, to a stop -- 
 
To your thumb full of beginning poems; 
To your thumb, priest-pink, miracle thumb, 
Thoroughly proud, primitive, profane. 

--Carlos A. Angeles