Compass
Anger freezes, his temper stabbing ice. He’s always ahead of behind, barely, beheading the ken. Sweeping spoon scooping in the light. Raze, rest, permanent.
Compass
Inside, bolted to the lounge table, he can’t find true north. There’s yeast in the east. If I look behind me, he begged – or ahead, in the mirror – perhaps I can take the dis out of orient. I wrest my case from the waste.
Compass
Fort Collins smudged brown. Indianapolis cancelled, Chicago late. Fellow passenger writing a poem entitled “Patience.” Rocky backbone.
Compass
Three birds bicker on top of a light post. In direct proportion to their distance from the city center, buildings diminish in size. Eight bolt heads, one smoke detector, in lieu of a framed landscape. Thickening sunset.
Compass
Dark to light blue capping a layer of green, yellow, violet, then light gray cloud roof unrolling. Brighter, bluer, morning catching up, overtaking us before Denver. She sits in the middle, but that’s not where she voted. Ahead, our landing, our land.
Comments