Apologia for Pavement

When the moon is barely a crack
or dead, an ovary that has released its
last shining egg, and the night is black-black
with sharp stars, split by that splash
of cosmic godmilk no one really knows
until one lands here in Crestone,
I pity city streets, kids closed in by buzzing
light and door to door concrete. Still,
here, on such a night, I prefer the paved
gentle curve, the slow, tarred arteries
of lights-out wide mountain roads
over narrow winding trails flanked by cacti
yucca, tripping rocks, and low piñon.
Such threats require some kind of lamp,
render me myopic, eyes down, dirtbound.
Why be a body tonight? I walk eyes rolled up,
space-drunk, in wide wobble stride.
Silent. Unoccupied. The dog does not strain
the leash, walks close at my side.