This is the where of whirring wheels,
The still I of a hurricane.
Pushing through the bluster again,
The babble of the radio
Shushing under bridges, I am
Box under bridges. Cars. Cars. Cars.

I see the strange things through this I.
I spy the edges of the world.
Far-sheep fluff-balls on jumper hills;
Miles of trees in piles of silence.
This is the key to those kingdoms.
I am alone among kingdoms.

You are there: are all gone. I am
Looking for landmarks. Turn. Turn. Turn.
And I cannot touch the houses,
Nor the ground that gushes below.
I pass it bit by mile by bit.
I am passing. I am all go.

This heart beats at the dead centre.
This great skull is a goldfish bowl.
I go giddily down roads of small wonder and pass you all.
Held by the fence-streaming, I am
Box under bridges. You. You. You.