I am in the park in the dark under layers
of cloud. I could be in bed,
or dead. But I’m not. I’m here.
I’m almost surely, certainly here.
And so I left those troubles
like a gray bitter snowstorm,
spinning but then
digging and gaining traction,
passing slowly through the drifts and pelting
(headlights full of the past),
driving knowing if I drove far enough
there’d be an end to it,
the white line again,
and a first inkling of why
We’ll not miss the island.
When we’re near, it will beckon.
A line of lights will point the way,
and we’ll have more than
this roar and blue buffeting —
more to guide us
than the glow of little dials.