Newlove: "Driving"

DRIVING  

You never say anything in your letters. You say,


I drove all night long through the snow


in someone else's car


and the heater wouldn't work and I nearly froze.


But I know that.

I live in this country too.


I know how beautiful it is at night


with the white snow banked in the moonlight.





Around black trees and tangled bushes,


how lonely and lovely that driving is,


how deadly. You become the country.


You are by yourself in that channel of snow


and pines and pines,


whether the pines and snow flow backwards smoothly, 
whether you drive or you stop or you walk or you sit.



This land waits. It watches. How beautifully desolate


our country is, out of the snug cities,


and how it fits a human. You say you drove.


It doesn't matter to me.
All I can see is the silent cold car gliding,


walled in, your face smooth, your mind empty,


cold foot on the pedal, cold hands on the wheel.



                                                                             -John  Newlove, from his Apology for Absence:   Selected Poems 1962-1992. Erin, Ontario: Porcupine's Quill.