For husbandpants, it is the Pacific Coast Highway. For me, there are many. Highway 2 East, Mt highway 200, Going-to-the Sun road, Lookout, Lolo, and Marias Passes, and I-90 W, especially the part where the fields get all winter wheat-y just before George.

What are your favorite stretches of highway? I’m poeming in public, tonight, which is an interesting experience.  What’s remarkable is that I’m in Essex, between East and West Glacier, in the Flagstop bar of the Isaac Walton Inn.  Wireless seems so unlikely here, juste as it did at our family cabin, but here I am, interneting in a bar.  It is a lovely, un-smoky, deserted bar, with pretty, quiet music in the back ground.  Today we’ve skiied, and sauna’d, hot-tubbed, and put ourselves on work conversation bans.  Good, good day.

I’ve been in three of my childhood homes in the last 24 hours.  It is a remarkable feeling.  Today I was thinking about highways, and decided to poem about them, and I think I’m about to write a poem that isn’t about highways at all, but it will start out that way. Also, this is a phone poem. There’s some sacrifice of composition there. Oh well.

Here. I’ve got more vacationing to do. Here:

Stretches of Highway

It follows ribbons of riverbed, to the best dam town of hungry horses, post cities of miles and different ices.

Along the way have sprouted many pottery studios. It has been a good recession for art.

Many small revolutions of kin, kiln s, and palettes.

Lost, almost unfolding in this homespun hunger, hungry and homespinning to the engine music of the empire builder,

A weary multitude of uprising flesh sings along to shrinking breaks, and in the quietness, makes. People are making.

Love. Vessels. Pictures. Words. Song.

See the art through these car windows, assailed with out a single answer. After long workweek hours, they, we, are bumbled, exercising in loops, making in hoops, and shuttles and brushes and clay,

Yawning, riding early to sustain, gathering materials to put wheels on or to put on wheels,

They, we, wake early to start the creation.

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Cool. See you makers tomorrow. Create hard, poemsters. Happy Sunday. Love Anna.

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