This is no hallow place
it is pasture land and that is all.
Why do I find myself at it
in times of trial?
And have since November ‘97
10:00 pm–20 degrees
steam rising in phantom sheets
off the hood of my car.
Even when I am nowhere near
I still find myself drawn here,
always with the same question…
****
I walk the gravel trail
adjacent to the water’s edge
noticing the broken beer bottles
and charred remains
of a previous night’s exuberance.
A five-leafed marijuana plant
spotlighted in the moonlight
makes me laugh. It is no weed.
More likely the remnants
of someone’s cheap bag–
perhaps they are growing it–
another laugh. I consider
crushing the plant under the heel
of my shoe. It cannot help me,
it is out of the question…
****
At this distance it is difficult
to hear the semi-trucks
on Highway 56, the drivers
No Dozing their way across America
I look back at the ’90 Chevy Beretta
parked next to the boat dock,
just able to make out its maroon doors.
I have been here before.
Am I dreaming now?
Is that the question…
****
The moon falls in the lake,
is Li Po drinking again?
Should I try and save him?
I pick up a flat stone and
sidearm it over the water’s surface,
letting my emotions ride eddies
into the horizons.
There are two moons; similarly,
there are two of me,
each a reflection of the other.
I look up as if to ask myself:
what face will you wear?
Already knowing that I am
asking myself again:
what face did you wear,
when you looked to the sky?
