It never completely gets dark on those back roads.
There are stars, deceptively few.
And velvet consumes and velvet erupts:
the softness is the leaves and the dirt paths and stables and skin. And eyes.
The dark places, the secret places: abrupt, always, fleeting
but indelibly there, like a muscle memory.
The ridiculous and impudent course of years means nothing:
the touch is the same, the taste. Iowa's sweet ground. I close my eyes to the
darkness and fall into it more and awake to the street disappearing into
fields and lost time.
A drive through the cemetery, a different place now
Winding up the hill marking a route in the dark with the pond
To stand breathless at the crest, arms wide open
I chart movements with a cartographer's conscience:
throw open my shirt and open my self to the sky flawed and stitched
and welcome my mother and forgive my father and
know the slap shock of being born.