tuesday evening, route 26 south, the weight of dust

all of these days spent
driving
through the smell of burning

a house or
a child or the beginning of
a hopeless century

skin
is what i mean

kennedy and the fragility
of the human skull

the simple beauty of the calla lily

and what happens is that
i am always somewhere between
lost and found

there are always hills and
the shadows they cast

sunlight and the sounds
of children in the seconds
before they disappear

the last screams of a
young girl in california

the relentless weight
of stories without endings

we tell them over and over
until every word begins
to sound like a confession