Driving Toward Benevolence
All year the shadows and lesser permissions. America
had been weeping disagreement and fragments
of caution. No one had a place to go but unstrung
cities kept our attention. I had to get out to the disorderly
where bats ache to purple. To the minor rebellion
of rigid aspens and direction unruly for miles. Sunlight
pushed by bluff. Turn a wheel toward the wild heart
of geography. The sky had its pulses, its glowering
and bears. I drove a map many miles. It was late summer,
each day a crimson reappearance of earth. The road moved
its horses. Nothing else but loitering ditches and ruts,
ranges of water. A mountain switched to its reflection.
It was easy to be greedy to situate where a great
horned owl could trace everything from the branches:
joy or pain. I had traveled to the end and was left
with the taste of an end, the start of the dark, which was also
a celebration of truth and new beginning.