Outbound

0:00outbound. Past the congested interstate, past the long lines outside the Dorothy Day Center, past the cheering bleachers, the steam rising from the coach's face, the fathers straining in prayer, past the rusting letters on the marquee, the dim lights along main, the couples who will fuck during the movie and the couples who won't, past the frozen orchard, past the defaced statue of a saint, a dog, choose thin the leather cord around his neck. The opposite of hunger is not satisfaction, it is birth. It is what makes a man chisel of face into stone. It is what drives the body to lie in the fresh snow. It is what quiets the world when she pulls you in close. It is the winning pass, the crowd too busy counting down to notice, the world puts the mouth on you and you don't say a thing. The world digs a hole in your yard and it's up to you to fill it,

1:04up to you to find something useful to do with your sadness. Strange, the yellow beetle dried between the pages of the dictionary, staining the page with its flattened body, its outline a dirty halo circling the word please, please. You've circled the same two blocks in search of a place to park, circled the yard, howling a name that won't respond, but you still think you know enough to call that enough. The boat smacks against the dock, it's tied to. Your mother fixes your father's tie before closing the casket. Everyone you loved refused to die in this town before they died in this town. The woman beside you on the plane wants to know where you're going.