Tanka (Lonely Highway)
lonely highway the wheat fields of my childhood come back to me the unrelenting crop my father beat me with
lonely highway the wheat fields of my childhood come back to me the unrelenting crop my father beat me with
And the days spill like soot from a fireplace, ash of them dusting skin. Days hoarded like krugerrands. Days
Tomorrows whirl along, they promenade like pages ripped from too-brief years, before their soft-shoe asphalt syncopations fade down Geary to
stillbirth the whole house full of lost hair
My fish-eyed brush caught my hair in a fistful of undoing. I’d become somebody else’s home. The things I was
Like they said in art history, it isn’t the object we see, it’s the light. Impressionism and calotypes. Try to