I woke up with the sun already at my back.

What will guide me today?

Trying to find a star in morning light can be frustrating– 

It is simpler searching in a clouded sky.

Grays hit eyes without reflecting. 

Hope comes from imagining that behind the billows are an

Entire plane of spatters, 

Intended to be a beacon

For an explorer 

that needs them the most. 

___

Driving down Desolation road, 

minding my own mind— 

allowing it to perceive the convexed pavement through serpentine cracks.

I wear black. 

Squinting forward with my cheek pressed against the abrasive surface

halfway between unmistakable clarity and mistaken uncertainty 

A figure kneels immortally still on the side of the street. 

My right foot coaxing the brake, my body acts on its own.

He wears a tattered burlap jacket that drapes off a skeletal torso.  

Pants torn, they cannot conceal knobby knees, brittle from standing.

On his head, a buckled top hat— 

One hand grips a package of laudanum, and in the other, a journal.

Stop. Where is my voice? 

My hand reaches right to open the passenger door. 

I grasp hold of vocal chords, I speak with a whimper, “where to?” 

He cricks his wrist, checks a watch, and says, “whatever’s next.” 

He tells me stories of rides, and the glories of the road. 

He tells me his name is Mr. Reaper, but I can call him Grim. 

We careen together, seeing layers of dusty mountains, 

Fields lush and lusting to be ran through. 

We speak about what this life is made of—

Beings connecting like chain links, touching one another as they drift apart—

The Ocean always coming back to the shore

no matter how many times it leaves.

He checks his watch,

“We are going to see a friend.”

He tell me everyone will be there

A painted landscape once blurred from eagerness

Becomes familiar.

Glimpses of the neighborhood—

The city takes a breath.

Surrounding streetlights flicker when we rush by.

Baseballs stuffed in sewer drains, Bicycles without handlebars.

The lights are turned off at 731 Murdock.

A cul de sac can be seen in front of us

Beyond the circle is a pasture of chess pieces arranged in a cluster.

We park on the point farthest from sight—under the cherry blossoms.

He softly sings between steps as we move diagonally,

“August, die she must, 

The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;

September I’ll remember 

A love once new has grown old again.”

Everyone is here

Huddled around a hole in the ground

Lying there anxiously; a solemn boy. 

He doesn’t wear a suit

But clothed in a black hooded jacket,  dirtied white t shirt, and dark cobalt jeans. 

A watch wrapped around his wrist.

His Chestnut eyes widen as he turns, chest to the ground pushing against the rock filled soil

His knees crack as they straighten, 

finding footing among the concaving ground.

Grim tosses me the sack of morphine

He bends down to lend a hand to the boy in the box—

pulls him out with one thrust from a muscleless arm,

And flicks a check mark in his journal.

With simultaneous strides they shuffle back to the idling car-

I bow my head-

A flick of a forefinger tips my chin, raising it up so my eyes can gaze into his

They are hollow.

Mesmerized by nothingness, I cannot look away.

He does not speak but seeps his thoughts directly into my mind— 

Converting sorrow into memories and sadness into dreams.