Did you know
I spoke once to a rock
and it answered?

My family told me
to keep that to myself.

My family told me
rock-tongues are truthful
but riddling.

I have uncles
who know these things.

I have aunts
who taught the uncles
and guide their knowing.

I would tell you what the rock said,
but I didn’t know the language.

Aunts and uncles understood
and they told me not to worry
about the message.

They said
I’d know it in time.

I’m still waiting,
family.  I’m still waiting
for the translation.

I lift and hold rocks to my ears
any time I walk outside.

All I ever hear is whispers
of how hard the world can be,
of how family can withhold

something necessary,
something they were meant to share.

From Maine to Massachusetts
down the coast,
slowing down the whole way,

driving into a snowstorm,
into the particulate tunnel
carved by the high-beams.

It doesn’t feel like it,
but it’s all about
playing with Death.

Then again, all driving and moving
is playing with Death,
though we don’t mention it

most of the time.  Of course,
it’s the beauty
of this late night game

that sweetens the risk a bit
and opens the door
for speaking

of how favored music
rouses us against
the lull of the tire noise,

how we fight through how lovely
the drive is,
how we long for home

although this,
this now,
is a kind of perfection.