Metal and Glass
In the milky glass of sleep,
you dream of leading students
on a field trip to a place
you have no earthly idea
how to find. The memory’s
metal barbs scrape
the delicate skin of morning.
What I want to tell you
is as upright and true as the white
cosmos in the front garden.
Their feathered stalks lean
into October wind, rain
coating the veins of blooms,
a thin platinum sheen.
Hear me: no one
ever knows anything
for sure. Every single
thing you’ve learned is your car
teetering on a mountain two-
lane, no shoulder,
a flatbed barreling toward you
targeting the windshield’s glare.