Instead of letting us pass

Instead of letting us pass
the road itself has moved, left markings like animal
tracks, white lines travelling their own instruction:
way given, yield laying a grassy track.
In a river it’s called a paleochannel, which would make this
roved absence a paleolane, paleostreet,
the lines of former desire set back from the ways of
cows passing, the sex shop that was once a Little Chef,
that Travelodge near Cambridge
in whose car park are standing stones,
still.