The Long Drive Home

Underneath all my lashings,
Linguistic writhings in the steep,
Underneath my set jaw
I weep.

You envision a world of beauty,
And for my part I grieve
I could never give you
Your desired reprieve.

You’re wounded and confused,
Ready to come home where there’s none
Shattered windows and trampled doors:
To the ashes you run.

These aren’t accusations.
I’m not angry at ghosts.
I’m sound, and fury, and sweet nothings,
Always tender to the utmost.

I think your fantasies were lovely,
But they’ve cost us the sum.
In these tremors, I ache, I feel
A million impulses inside the numb

Past the surface flash of burning ire
Lies the fresh earth of hollow graves
The dry flower beds of unopened blooms,
And the passing train cars that can’t be saved.

I see the tragedy ever unfolding
In over-cranked, slow motion spinning
And I know there must be time remaining-
Desperately I fumble to rewrite the ending

You yearn to return with packed bags
And reinhabit a dream you’ve once known
But there are no roads, and I go mad
Being unable to drive you home.

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