by Michael H. Brownstein
How do you go someplace with nothing?
We have different memories, you and I,
entering the room of other thought,
a rude space strong as dripping water,
a lapse of memory, a lasting envy,
whatever this is sitting next to me
cursing into the yellow darkness.
I never lose sight of responsibility.
On the train platform of predators,
I do as the wolves taught me—
stare into them until they leave me go.
But none of this has any real importance.
Twice I lost my way. This is what is important.
Once in the snowfields, Northern Montana
and again in the bogs, Southern Wisconsin.
Last night I felt my place slip again.
Where do you think you are going?