How transparent is the road ahead?
How many hands claw at you
As you mud though the prickling road?
Do you find yourself being pulled back
To the place where you’ve been burnt?
Have you been stranded here long,
Looking at the blind compass
Battling the barking low
Of what you left behind,
What do you see, on the plateau
In the still yonder?
Or are you taking steps in the preceding?