bed of nails

you are emptiness

and then you're everything

you sleep without violence
or you drown

slowly
like a phone call from
your father's doctor

slower

a car ride in december from
one dying town to another

seventy five miles of nothing
but powerlines and crows

of nothing but anger and
despair and
when you get to where you're going
no one knows who you are

when you leave again
no one says good bye

you call this place home
and all it ever does is burn