Something about these roads,
crossing like threads pulled taut
across New Jersey—the way
they never end until you hit gold:
sand, and suddenly the roads are gone,
lost to the sea and the shells and crabs;
where one beach stretches into another beach,
and another, and so on, until you’re so far away
you can shut your eyes and imagine
that sand is what keeps the trees and roads and sea
from falling apart:
a state sewn together by more than a turnpike.
crossing like threads pulled taut
across New Jersey—the way
they never end until you hit gold:
sand, and suddenly the roads are gone,
lost to the sea and the shells and crabs;
where one beach stretches into another beach,
and another, and so on, until you’re so far away
you can shut your eyes and imagine
that sand is what keeps the trees and roads and sea
from falling apart:
a state sewn together by more than a turnpike.