TRAVELING THE WAY Iâ€™VE TRAVELED
by Justin Dodd
Moving south, the trees flicker, drawl: I search for trouble
through the windshieldâ€”â€”along the creek beds. Boys range the
thickets, parks, rest stopsâ€”â€”anonymous as oaks. No thoughts of disease or cure.
Telephone poles stampede: a cardinal scatter of linesâ€”â€”
Field mice snick through the blade-weed. Born for the claw
and the beak, they mime their passions, laugh between attacks.
In the expanse that is thought on expanse, there are only two
points: infinity, enclosureâ€”â€”the letter I mail him over and over.