Back Roads Home
Wherever I was headed before
I made that last turn swirls indiscernibly
in gravel dust and exhaust.
How a little rain would point me
in the right direction.
The buttes and plateaus hold their breath
in the face of darkness. The earth cracks and bleeds
beneath the sun. Surely it was someone from Oklahoma
who first hoped for Heaven.
A jute-colored river binds the land
where red dust devils scour hardscrabble
with rusty steel wool. The road narrows
in one direction. Behind me,
my shadow looks for one green thing.