September 9

It’s turneresque in twilight. The word comes at me with its headlights on, so it’s revelation and not death. I figure I’m halfway home though I’ve only started. Nothing is moving but me: I’m a blackbird. The neigh- bor’s in labor, but so am I, pushing against the road. Physics tells us nothing is lost, but I’ve been copping time from death and can’t relent for every job the stars drop on my back.