Traveling west to east or east to west,
it doesn't matter, I might have guessed 

this recollection of opposite travel,
row upon row of trees that unravel 

in the same dull direction as road.
What to think of--nothing. I suppose 

the going matters, not the way to go.
The whistling wind-wing and the radio's 

static, fading tunes keep company.
So never mind--to think is treachery.  

Put miles behind us, let's push on somewhere
neither east nor west, but simply there. 

We'll stop the car, get out, and have some lunch
(boiled ham on white, no mayo), gas her up 

and check the oil. Then, in a dark stall,
roll of towels sprung loose or none at all

--dim lightbulb, disinfectant, sad ablution--
we'll find ourselves engaged in repetition, 

see the sprawling thoughts, few words that matter,
ideas we scrawl and gouge, then freely scatter

the same from west to east and east to west:
Here is our need recited, name undressed.