Stoned on gravel and fog,
Wrong-way skidding down one-way streets,
I learned to drive sideways on ice.
Never knew where I was headed—
That dead color, that blank opera.
Learned to hug my anger
Against rare good days
Until thoughts of home
Crashed into a box that fit inside
A bigger box and so on.
As the rest of the pilgrims
At the border crossing crowded around
The woman who had tied
A crocodile around her waist,
I tiptoed past the gate.
The bridge bullied me across
The blind black river.
O, I’ve limped miles since last we rioted these streets.