Curves of a Dirt Road

We refugees cannot see the footprints
on night’s cold, moonless backroad,
though our soleless feet can feel them 
pressed in the dark dirt between 
potholes, stumbles, and detours. 

We have no bright stars to guide us,
nor can we see our own feet
or the way they go. We can only feel
our heavy breaths ahead of us
like cobwebs of fog.

 A lightning flash gives a split-second clue, 
shedding little light on a graveyard
that follows us to a crossroads
of curves where each way could be
a dead end, where perhaps both
the way back and the way ahead
end here.