Interstate
winding the criss
from the crossed-
out center line
how is it I am still
not any of these things
one small hand holding the sun
against the sky
knuckle and breath so hard
it punches through
I-don’t-know-what
landing-I-don’t-care-where
just follow the path
back to the house
we never had
we’ll stand full-boned
and scream and be
all of the things that were left out
and the gloaming earth
of deep shadow
and all that we couldn’t say then
we will say it now.
