For decades we return to the same
small house on the cul-de-sac or
to the same apartment by the stairwell.
We know the trees that crook
outside our windows, their intimate signatures
of bark and knot hole. We share
a ready name for things, can lay our fingers
on the words we need. People look
where we point. We accomplish.
But something happens—a gradual
or quick rewiring. Suddenly, That's my dog
means Hand me my sweater. We lift
from the earth on unseen currents.
When young fists lose interest, we drift
away, are driven here and there
like packages. Where should we go?
our driver may humor us. Right or left?
Straight up, we answer, into the dark.