print previewback BENJAMIN GOLDBERG
Sound Wall
The last place I’d look for vision
is meadow, then gray. Earth berm,
then river. City, then crack. A pictography
of exhaust tars these panels until the hills
burst into pine. I’ve seen entire miles
made of underpass and spray paint,
the drainpipes whose concrete still wears
the names of lovers the men who hauled it
once held. I’ve driven this world into slivers
of sky, into masonry block veined finely
with vines. I ride, autumn halfway
into the arson of itself, the passenger window
cracked until wind sounds like fire.
I miss the exits trying not to see signs
that staying alive is the same as staying lost. 
Foregone Psalm
Sound Wall