This road is every dirt road,
every grassy ditch and wheat field;
that hill near every river. The stairs
that shuttle down are the same stairs in dreams,
like fattened finger bones. Nothing,
not even sky can bear the road.

Pear trees are sometimes inverted,
sprouting soggy fruit underground
where muddy birds lay their eggs
and hatching babies paddle up for air
like sea turtles. There are alligators
in every river, gardens of them wilting

and waiting for the man who presses his arms together
and carries the water to the mouth of the road,
who gives what he has, and knows he’s no good.