Setting out, I thought I had the ticket in my hand.
One fist was clenched, the other one was gritted up with sand
that blew into my window near the mountain
that rose to push the sky up from the land.
Vanished. How I lost it, though, I can’t so much as think.
It fell, and when it fell it didn’t cough or make a clink.
Perhaps it floats or swirls beneath the fountain
at which we stopped so we could have a drink.
Let me have a look at it – this faded scrap I’ve found.
The date’s expired. One hardly knows if it is square or round.
It really isn’t something we can count on.
We’ve neared the end. We’d better turn around,
take it back, redeem it and request a new reprieve.
That’s life – though on the other hand, I’d rather still believe
that there’s a way of getting there without one.
The highway rolls its secret up its sleeve.