Driving at night. In wilderness with brights on. With twin red tail lights ahead and the radio and dashboard showing my hands to me, steering, glowing lime green. There is new asphalt. There is a song, something like this one
that flickers out with the dash lights, the tail lights ahead too, the brights and the brakes, all snuffed out softly of a sudden while the engine drives into a pure drawn blank where my eyes are open but useless for seeing ahead.
***
The expression Herman gave me: "not your garden." Rather, that I took it from him as he took it: from a friend in conversation relating a conversation with a friend. "Not your garden." Well sometimes you get a looksee over the wall, a little tour. A red lettuce salad. A whole head. As when a friend in conversation relates a conversation with a friend. It was more than I wanted, this head, but everyone else was served first and more. So I wanted their plates.
***
What you do when you cut up potatoes and divvy. For planting, everyone gets an eye. But I want your eyes. "It's the same thing." No it's not. I want your eyes and my eyes. Your head and my head.
***
