Our transport is an armored war machine:
a road unto itself in black and white.
We wheel on inexorably between
the contours of depression and delight.
Anxiety and ecstasy and pain
we know; we take the valley and the height,
and rattle at each benchmark we attain,
our passage agitated left and right.

The tank of time has wheels within its wheels
and casts its minutes off like clods of earth
that fly away apart, and so reveals
a road in retrospect that starts at birth
and cuts a path through each succeeding day,
and only after passing shows its way.