Awake, I strike a word against the
dark
like a match. This could be the past
we are leaving. Buses on high beams;
wild eyes that ride down the road’s
unpromising narrative. The sky at a loss
for stars, thick as a foreign tongue.
Shadows bleed and every tree, thought
or breath is black. God is here
and not here, his retreat or restraint
gathering around us, filling us
like cooling lead. Between nowhere
and everywhere, this is no hegira.
Where do we end up but at another
interchange? Sobering light gives us
pause, night pooling into memory.
The future takes its time to get here.
