They call streets “boulevards” and build them huge
Where grandpa’s ox-cart could not budge;
Here’s room for elbows, land of the brave fourth gears.
Speed is the bridge for spanning loneliness.
This is the western way to die.
And when the car stops burning, thar he’ll lie,
Surrounded by the brothers of his lodge.
O Crash for whom their boredoms cry,
Is there—in your sensuous instant—time to guess
At what’s unspent, at what’s unsaved, unsensuous years
Never hot with doubt nor faith nor reverence for tears?