A drive in the fall
A drive through the country
A drive by the auburn
blameless farms
Now the soft rain
and dear-met silence
the blue dun clouds
revoking the sun
On to that place
at the end of the lane
I will know
by the door
and the lanterns
that warm it —
the same way I know
the veil on my heart
and whose hands
my hands have begun
to resemble
Nonetheless
they are mine that
clasp the wheel
and keep me
from veering to
the left or the right
Rain picks up
on the windshield and
russet farmlands smear,
thick wet paintings
turned on their side
and turned upright
again
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I’m awake and
alive because of
the grief on this
road to a place
with no number,
but a place where
familiar eyes watch intently
through a peeling door
and a closed, solitary mouth
waits to speak
some latent, long-needed word
to me
I know I’m here
and I’m as sure
as it’s possible for one
to be sure
there is no great cause
or revolution or
novel stand to take
But my life
at least
is about this
long, fated drive
by townline
and treeline
taking me by
vacant fieldstone homes
in the rain to
a well-kept nowhere
where I can
expect at last
to be seen
And isn’t it true
that we will all find
ourselves following this
inevitable course
that runs on endlessly
underscoring
our years
and that its claim
on us is unmistakable
and strong
like the pull of a god?
I saw an image
in a magazine:
Mercury was a mere
speck before the sun,
a world no one can visit
and remain on
either side of
and I felt a kinship
for a moment
as I stared at the page
It seemed as though
that small, bruised-lavender
speck of a world
was hurdling on
driving a long, flat road
through space and time to meet
my familiar eyes
