Unmappable

Kansas coos me into its wheat.
Done with direction, I follow the lightning,
God’s arrows insisting even the desolate
can be a destination.

In the black and white of a winter dawn
a train zippers the wet land
to a sky clouded with intention.
It looks more like a photograph

than a photograph resembles the moment
it captures, its frame diverting, its filter
slanting truths. Say I make of this a photo—
what would the evidence show?

That I was in a body here for awhile
and I wanted this to mean something?
Is this the alibi or the crime?
And who is the jury to receive this—no one

knows I’m here. I loaded the car in Technicolor
and drove east—had done milked the west
of fresh starts—but the time changed
so I don’t know when