Blow

I keep longing for something that longs for something.
For the type of place you’d like to know,
Maybe the drive to the Atlantic:
Where the world creases in.
You’re born too far from where you’re supposed to be, so trade in your collarbones for something with a better grip.

Everything is more surprising than you think.

A whole lotta life is those quieter places.
Times and roads where you pull off to the side and hear your pant legs fold in on themselves.
Step after step.
You’re deadheaded if you think everything is out there, but I can’t say you’re too far off if you feel that it is.

I’m waiting for a hydrant to blow, or something like that.