in your private envelope
of air
you and your engine
like a thousand
screaming babies,
oblivious to all weather.
My leaving was the
paradox:
you wanted a map,
an asphalt web,
a smell and a slick of oil
instead of whatever
you could not,
would not know.
Now in the rain I
cultivate
broken
twigs, deflated blossoms,
and this year’s
transplants.
We turn and turn
the worms and I
tightening circles
in these square inches.
Steam from the hot road
mists me and my fat
seedlings.
Too bad in your plastic
suit
you have nowhere to go.
Compost in the wrinkles
of my knees
I have been everywhere,
know how to go again.