The potholes
and the ruts
bring to mind
Bud's skull,
cratered by
a Philly cop
in ’45 but
it guarded
Tempus Fugit
and Un Poco Loco
to spill again
like rivulets
of melted snow
in April, through
cortex-creased,
donkey-nibbled
hills in morning sun,
glittering
synaptically,
defiantly,
because.