Wherein I spend four hours in the car, thinking.

When I stepped to the kitchen behind the dog this morning, I couldn't figure out why the cars in the driveway had gone rosy--until I turned to look out the back windows.

It's a four hour drive from where I live to where I lived, and am now, and it's the kind of drive that's good for meditating and mulling over.  This afternoon I did a lot of musing on something I wrote several years ago but hadn't thought about for awhile, until my beloved Brooklynite mentioned recently that she'd shown it to her poetry students.  When I returned to it, I thought, yes: yes indeed.  And so it was the silent track under the sounds of my return from one home to another, and so I will reprise it here.

Wide Night Words
(with apologies to Carol Ann Duffy)
La lala la. See what it is like, or what it is
like in words? Somewhere I am singing
an impossible song. Shall I say it is sad?

In one of the tenses of desire that you cannot hear
I close my eyes and imagine
this is the other side of wide night,
the pleasurable moon turning away from the hills.

Cross out the distance between us, for I am
thinking I am in love with you and this.
Cross that dark and I would reach to have you.

The room is slowly of and on you.
Or this is.