through Santry –

through the place 

where I learned 

how to drive.

the car goes

forward, steady

as a log rolling

on a hillside. I spin wheels

like throwing stones in the ocean;

seashells

sinking into surf. it is a cold day,

fresh and clear – a mirror. I remember

having trouble with a corner – 

now I take it

easy as a boxful of cherries. to my left

girls walk home 

in the uniform 

of my old school,

and a young woman

pulls a dog

and carries a carton of milk. it's 3 o'clock

and the whole world smells

of raspberries.