Any Night, Any Hill
On shadow-bellering nights,
headlights over the hill
are like sunrise.
I trace scars,
wonder how the other driver caught theirs.
I used to think I could make a home in any light,
but if the world was ending,
I’d be stretched out toward
a lantern on the dining room table
inside a farmhouse.
Five miles until I reach him.
I’ll hop out of the car,
it won’t be graceful,
but it will be persistent and unbreaking.
I’ll feel the intimacy of rain
outlining my hips.
I’ll hear the owl.
I always hear the owl.
Even through thunder,
even with never having seen her.
By dawn’s clouded blue,
it all sounds like a myth.