Appalachian Nights
We met our own fragile. There, a man with
melon-colored toenails was on the run
from something. He was a father, mostly,
and a fright.
Pointed a finger at those who run
the country from their ikea table in a
high school gymnasium. Playing
Prelude in G under the canopy of trees.
He said that time moved forward and
backward and both directions were too
close to home.
He said that breath is a decision,
that a daisy is fire.
He said that if you fractured a feeling into pieces
a woman’s back would be leather and peppercorns,
not soft like you were expecting, and
sorrow would be a siren, not a swamp.
—
Just us and no moon rising. A tuck and roll escape,
we packed the tent away when no one
was looking, watchtowers in our rear view.