Minefield
Geese exploding over steep black
pitch of roof, scattering their clustered
echolalia
through late fog-blurred dark lightning
of December trees.
The corm of moon planted shallow.
You are startled by the roadside
with your luggage of dream
as if you’d been hit by a shrapnel
of spirit voices
and the blood mica
sheering the helpless enzymes of the wish,
the one you wanted to bring with you
in the smears of words, like the road
wet with the memory of the future
glistening still in your headlights.
We had to penetrate quite a distance
into the new century
before we realized we were no longer
in the old one
and we had to stop and pull over
without damaging the sleeping seeds
as if sleep were a place
we will have to walk from.
