Where I’m From
I am from the pelvic saddle, the Rime of the Ancient Mariner
landlocked. From the ceremony of silly walks and shoes
that pinch. The Reagan years and Loose Gravel signs.
When I wander I carry an ocular device to tune up
the horizon with Gambel Oak and Cricket Mice. It’s
Exit 13 that I want with the Wagon Wheel Diner.
You’ll join me I suppose with your origami mapping
of clouds the equivalent of Georgia and bone
and the oracular tosses of tiles and of stone.
We’ll see where we land. Solemn as goats.
In our grey woolen coats and fingerless gloves.
A coupling of digits. Turn the key and let’s rove.