I wrote this for you,
but don't be disappointed
when you realize
that it's quite
anticlimactic.

it's days like these
when everything is wet
but it's not raining
when black crows stand out
on a cloudy grayscale
minor chords that perch
on empty branches and telephone poles
and roam the main roads
when no cars are passing

it's days like these
when the trees know a sad song
and weep in the autumn fog

I’ve stepped out of the car
and into this familiar scene
hundreds of times.
Only the details change.

I no longer bike down the hill,
past the pecan trees,
and throw white rocks
into the stream.

I don’t race through pastures
along the thin paths
whittled into the earth
by the hooves of the herd.

I gave up trying to beat
nails into wooden rejects,
making thingamajigs
and doohickeys.

I used to criticize the stiff pews
and cringe at the red crushed velvet.
I diverted my eyes
from the forty tithing members.

Now all the bikes are broken
and the pecans withered away.
The stream has dried up
and the rocks are *****.

I no longer want to run
and the paths are faded.
The cattle have been sold
and the pastures overgrown.

I only use hammer and nail
to make practical things,
and even those
are not really worth making.

I sit and accept the message,
upright and alert.
I shake the hands of the congregation
and look them in the eye.

Only the details change.

A flashflood of morning sun
emptied into the valley
and transformed the hills
from green to the kind of electric
gold only reserved for ancient kings.

Somewhere on a sunbeam
someone tuned a fiddle.

A flowering June breeze
cruised in from the north
pulled into the valley,
parked, unpacked,
and set up camp.

The high and lonesome sound
tumbled downstream.

Bodies and blades of grass
moved in unison
with the June breeze
and the music reverberated
in the air between.

Somewhere on a sunbeam
a memory was composed.

I never noticed
the shapes of headlights
that race across the room
like greyhounds
as cars pass.

The shapes sit
only for a moment
then roam anxiously
along the brick
and disappear in the corner.

A contrasting scene
of stagnation
and restlessness
painted across the walls
as cars pass.

Maybe I should leave
the blinds open more
often as I attempt
and most likely fail
to dream.

Ghost walking round town
That ghost is me
Don't know why but I wander
I am not free

Restless ghost I am
Walking round town
Transparent mind and body
Won't settle down

Come back to the body
I'm sure that we agree
Died when I heard the words
It's not you, it's me

Highway 74, a straight drive.
Nothing to look at but trees and fields,
cars and asphalt, gray and black.
Decrepit barns dot the highway
all across this ******* state.
I am getting closer.

The meter on the dashboard drawing closer
to empty, I can finish the drive.
Heavy static coming through the solid-state
speakers, more fields.
At least I’m off the highway.
Winding roads, tires black.

Sky turning blue, purple, then black.
The road and I have become closer.
601, I cross over the two-lane highway
and continue the drive.
Emptiness from the autumn harvest, barren fields.
Sometimes I love this state.

Closing in on the state
border, headlights piercing through the black,
can’t see the fields.
Pedal steady at 55, all the time coming closer,
four hours since the start of this drive.
The road rises and falls, breathing the contours of the land, a living highway.

Into the driveway, far from the highway,
another mile, another state.
Physical exhaustion, no mental drive.
Into the tungsten light, out of the black.
This place makes me feel closer
to my roots, the countryside and the fields.

Tomorrow, I’ll see the same fields
I saw as a child. The same highway,
the one that brings me closer,
the one that leads out of this state.
Sleep is black.
Dream of the drive.