The gravel road I grew up on is blood

-stained from knees and black

-berry fingerpaint.

I caught a south wind in my

tooth gaps and

took off,

bellyaching about overwhelm

with the fruit still falling

heavy                            and sun warm

right into my hands.

My friends and I resurrected

                 wonder

back out west,

gutted a fish and sewed up the seams,

and there it is                   in everything

green and trembling.

My friends’ faces floating in the river

beyond the banded holler of certainty,

beyond that

                                               more green.

After an equinox of running full sprint

toward the horizon,

we’ll be slowing down eventually.

Somewhere on the side of a desert highway

there’s a ditch filled

with everything                                  ever lost

and I’ll fall down sweating next to it,

show it some nakedness

and a speed limit sign.

Back in the field

the cows are watching one another

die

and the far side of the pasture

blooms

a summer’s worth of cherry pits

                           doing the same.