This Nor'easter, that I've read about in magazines
featuring mallards on the cover, cracks across
a sky erect, industrial chimneys. Pittsburgh spits you out.

You're crossing the country as your own Iditarod and
I'm making no plans, biding time on a screen porch,
calming the dogs, or tracing a finger across the

finish of heart-pine, heat radiating off my
arms and legs. I'll be leaving these things behind:
two magnolias, the crystal decanter labelled

Rum. In my absence they will fill with meaning.
I'll learn gravity while I'm gone. How to use silence like

an X-Acto Knife. The twisting, silk ropes of touch
and torture, skin pinched up between.

Soot-owl, eyes like ravines,
I imagine you in peril:
arrested in a pasture at gunpoint,
bearing seven blows to the head, kneeling.

I am growing feral, as you predicted.
Foregoing sleep, barefoot, driving repeatedly
over my favorite bridges.

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