interstate, early autumn

 moving north through the

 wreckage of the 20th century

 past the collapsing barns

 and abandoned gas stations and
 endless stretches of nothing

 past the boulders spray-painted

 with three hundred years of hatred
 and if you ask for some small truth here
 i offer that i'm never fully at ease
 in the company of others

 i tell you that my anger

 feeds off of my fear
 and will therefore last forever

 and a man i have never met

 who has had half of his face blown off in
 a war fought for obscure reasons
 wants to bury me in his pain

 a woman in a town i will never see

 asks me to stop writing poetry

 asks me to explain the

 significance of four dead trees rising out
 of a pond of black water and i can't

 things exist for their own reasons

 the baby is born dead

 on a cold sunlit afternoon
 and the floor is stained with blood

 the shelves are thick with dust

 this is the world i know

 whatever beauty i find in it

 is too precious to just give away