Where the visions rushing by
they slap you in the face and then are gone;
I too have sped where the wind whistles through
along the rolled-down window's edge
I have been behind the pane
where the wipers lash against the rain
But now I walk a different track;
the rain drips down my collar-back.
Climbing up the brush-grown path
sliding on the moss and runneled rocks
by the caved-in wreck
of the ancient fungus-eaten shack
My pulse, my thoughts, my breaths
all slow in sympathy
to the slower rhythm of the slower way.