THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF TRAVEL

At the top of a hill, the sky ends.
No, nor the road, straight
and clean as a lie, rising to a crest,

then dipping into the large mirrors
of old landscape, each town
pretending to bear a different name

as we pretend we live there, speaking
to strangers in a friendly manner,
imagining our lawns, loves, days.

Outside of town again, we drive,
the sky promising eternity
now, which is nothing new.