The place is hot and closed, a courtroom
or a kiva for decisions, but my mind is wholly away
in the plowed, foamy dirt south of Slaughterville.
The house was white once, the two aluminum sheds
are still painted and padlocked. And I park under a tree
facing my own home, twenty-five miles back the black road.
I catch my breath, take a leak, and count my steps to the middle
of land owned by insects, a broken porch, and me.
Four meteors in an hour. The heavens break in Halloween
like champagne and the air is as cold. The ground is warm yet
and a patch of straw is my pillow for the show.
The stars are salt, preserving the nightsky
so I am an archeologist, though a pauper, and alone as well.
I am healthy when I become empty here,
collapsing in the hollow ruts.
I want to sleep here tonight, curled in my car
with my suede coat and flashlight
but I make it only to four before the job is done
and I crawl home in peace.
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