Only the Amish drive slower
than me on this county’s roads
that loop and curve and wind
until I lose all sense of direction–
here the sun’s in front of me
yet here it’s clearly behind.

And, here there’s a hollow roundness–
a gargling of a large marble–
behind their I, so they say ah. 
I get lost in conversation 
with my inner translation–when
they say: I like, I hear: A lock…

Alack! Then, in my brain, Bottom chokes back:
O night! O night! Alack, alack, alack!