My walk to the boarding house
up in the north through
a night field was also
a slow drift through nothingness.
I could see little enough under the void
of a new moon, trying to follow
what might have been interpreted as a road.
With each step I sensed
the possibility of an open well gaping,
and I knew if I fell, I'd never be found,
but also that stopping wouldn't save me.
A white van passed and slowed,
passed and then hunkered down.
It was my only point of reference.
A shadowy figure got out, split off.
I groped into weaving black grass,
hands useless unless I crawled,
undulations of ground, rustling
The air was sharp and cold,
precise as a bitter wire.
I thought "Lazarus stay dead,"
then "what am I becoming?"
Finally the form rejoined,
and the van drove on.
There was just me then
in this wide open dark,
grass blowing in waves.