The phrasing of the phrase is framed in such a way
that the place is placed above the time, a space for us to gaze.
It's "From Here to Eternity," not "till" or something linear,
so we're going hunting till we stumble on the cusp's interior.
And we're taking the old country highway.
There's a broken-down shack on the side of the road,
used to fix tires with holes. The owner's retired.
Now what? The shack sits abandoned.
Eras melt off its slate siding, split and vandalized,
There's the old coat of gray paint
from back when gray paint was fashionable.
Back in ninteen-sixty-three, when these stains were maskable.
There's a herd of cows grazing in a field. Herd? Group?
I don't know. They stink. Turds? Poop? The word's moot:
A shit by any other name smells the same.
And even a tipped cow can't tell us if it felt the pain.
And we're taking the Interstate.
There's a sign at the exit. Repainted recently.
Bright golden arches help engage the scenery.
You can smell that fresh air — potatoes, grease and meat
— and for miles the neon buzzes with its display machinery.
There's a minivan stalled off deep in the shoulder.
Mom's calling the tow truck. Dad's trying to keep his composure.
The boys standing in back, with branches they battled.
Fake swords, all because their handhelds ran out of batteries.
But the girl, she's in the car, remembered her charger.
Presumably texting her friends about this mess of her father's.
But she smiles as she looks out at a sunset through the car door.
And we're taking the backstreets.
There's a cul-de-sac with seven houses lining its street
and in the middle is an empty fountain from the time of its peak.
Now the poor neighborhood kids play in its basin, hide-and-go-seek,
and one day realize will everything that they'd find in the heat.
There's a patio with a chair and an ashtray on the ground.
The ashtray's full. The chair is empty.
The wind whips without making a sound.
It turns the leaves, brown now. Once a perfect green.
And that alone means we haven't found Eternity.
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