NaPoWriMo 4-1-2014

My wits have not been with me.

And the well-squared
concrete pathway
lately
in the southside morning
has bristled with
old sets
of stops and starts
of miles
in the low spring
sun.

And with each yard
I trample
toward
employee entrances,

thin roots
and
sunsets
underneath
still - somehow -
crave upward

for my ankles
and my calves.

And I still
murmur
horseshoes in my sleep,
and locksprings,
and pyrite,
and gunflint,
and riversides,
and old friends gone acquaintence,

And this
terrifying grace that I have
so adored
and for so long
wondered after,
heaved upward
from the earth.

In my days - these days -
with sons -
I am concerned

with recalling
treasured nights
correctly.

But if I
should fail -

again; again -

I know
my feet
owe nothing
to my wits.