Let's Go Home

The road, powdered white

by crushed salt, turned

cobalt under cloud

cover—kite untethered.

The asphalt kept the thought

of thunder—spring’s future

memory. A vulture, drafting

the gust, flew through

black limbs, crooked

as reverie. Train track

rust and possum blood

blacked the rocks where wood,

stacked and trussed, waited.

The empty lot and cracked

curb where we kissed; the house

haunted by the butcher’s wife,

cleaver in hand, creaks—

she walks the porch looking

for more mason jars.