A Touring Man Loses His Way With all the wreckage of vacation, of an assembled life in tow, we drive into this town on narrowing roads whose names run verticals up whited stone markers, suddenly there, haunting the intersections. To right, in the rush of the open vents, the map crackles idly, draped and puckering over her thighs, wide-slung in sleep; the rich blue interstate prowls over one knee, and licks resignedly the wobbly stick-shift. Above the dust horizon of dash, and stranded travel- cups, the sea comes rearing; then we descend, and the waves seem to rise from the quaver of tar and heat and broken fluorescence. I say: "this road, the road, a road" to no one specifically. Her head wanders from the headrest, strays toward the ground sheen of safety glass. The unamazing thought occurs just under the wheel-hum   I have no idea what I am doing   I have no idea where I am going. With increasingly waning trust I grip the wheel -- this seems primary, this feels correct -- and shoulder by instinct into the hurtling road that bends, unbends, buckles through this land: a coast shingles flashing, weathering. -- Carl Phillips