A Route of Evanescence
      With a revolving Wheel—
   A Resonance of Emerald—
         A Rush of Cochineal—
And every Blossom on the Bush
      Adjusts its tumbled Head
The mail from Tunis, probably,
    An easy Morning’s Ride

 —Emily Dickinson

The trees were soon hushed in the resonance
of darkest emerald as we rushed by
on 322, that route which took us from
the dead center of Pennsylvania

(a stone marks it) to a suburb ten miles
from Philadelphia. “A hummingbird,”
I said, after a sharp turn, then pointed
to the wheel, still revolving in your hand.

I gave Emily Dickinson to you then,
line after line, complete from heart. The signs
on Schuylkill Expressway fell neat behind us.
I went further: “Let’s pretend your city