A Fire Was In My Head

Kept Promises

Ghastly crackles down below the wheels
sliding up the gravel drive to the old house—
the engine gives a little shake.
Wrapped as if in snow by darkness
and cool nebulae of dew
I draw no more form
than these pines I think,
the weeds and the azaleas looming,
mountains many miles north,
all of this I’ve ever known.
This night does not invite a sleep:
I have come in his car to his place
to read his books with his face.

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