After a run
my legs do not rhyme anymore.
They disjoin and mutter oaths,
go to sleep in a basilisk coil
that I do not undo.
Once under, they dream:
nothing is prettier than a road.
The interstate and all
its apostles thread through tall woods,
lame grasses, and every mouth
of America. She opens her teeth
and earth movers line up, their high
steel like braces for the unwilling 
young. But dreams take metaphor 
too far. Dead people turn up
in truck stops, and the gods of this
or that sit near open windows,
their eggs getting cold, coffee
the color of the street
oiling their lips.

My legs wake
to a feckless queen. What is it
you want, they ask, and I finger
the cord on the blinds.
To slow down. To sip the highway,
taste the periphery, coddle
maps for their pretty red lines.
Look at Pan. He chews
joe-pye weed and sings
a hundred damn songs a day.
I hear a laugh that starts
in the ankles and even mooncalves
feel better about themselves.
My knees crinkle into forgiving
grins. By the door, they say,
your shoes are learning to walk.
When they spill, it is lighter now,
and you will find the soles
are like new.