A main road in Denver
from a plane’s window:
constricted, dehydrated veins.
Some other soul’s regular route.
Colorado rock seems to breathe,
pulse from this high above. I feel like hovering
like branches of hemlocks in Pennsylvania.
I’m choosing to linger, antlers
through a morning fog
when the Delaware’s too low for a fire.
How ink curls, flicks
around the word “home.” My blood left
on northern maple leaves, spilled
in Oklahoma dirt
the color of October foliage I’ve slipped,
fallen on.
I’m straddling state lines where home
is fragile in my pocket. Where it beats
on the edge of my lips, desperate, unsure
like a secret.