Don’t sing to me about going down to the Crossroads—
Blind as I am, walking with a dog,
I’m always at lethal intersections.
These are countries without names.
The Devil has nothing to do with them.
Henry Ford sits on his cloud and points.
Read T.S. Eliot in youth.
Now when I go back
I riffle an album full of leaves.
After much is said and done
I made too many mistakes.
Entered strange parlors,
Uttered jokes in poor taste
Among people I didn’t know.
Ate with the wrong utensils.
So he went a long way a long way:
Regrets, coins, pocket comb,
Dharma in memory.
Broken thread dangling from his wrist.
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.”
Oh but this isn’t so.
The language stretches out.
On the bright side:
Language is a jacket you’re not cold in.
So many times I’ve fallen asleep between two winds.
Even on this street corner.