80

Two-rut road headed for a rise

where the ruts converge in a vanishing point.

We both been there.

                                     I sent you a postcard.

You sent me a poem.  There were buzzards.

Years passed, back country, no big deal.

Your black and white ‘56 Chevy burned oil.

We had sons who never met

and wives who left us, haiku and manifestos.

Instructions have again arrived—

we follow this trace to vanishing.