I talk more to trees and mice than I let on. Flies, too.
And cars. Actually, I’m a regular chatterbox
to what doesn’t respond. So I understand prayer.
The way a street’s a street, but catch it right, and with
good framing, the street achieves art. So I get out my bike
and take off down it, with headphones and a little cloud
of dust. I need to get myself to Marfa and see the lights.

Not really, but saying that gives me a starting point.
I’m having a debate with my third eye. It goes like this:
if I have a deeply unsettling dream about someone,
does it change my perception of them? Should it?
Maybe it should change my perception of me.
Maybe I’m catching some subtle clue my sleep
is trying to warn me about. I ask the trees and mice about it,

the flies and cows. Aren’t we all injured by our art?
All the grandmothers, as one, are banging apple pies
against their kitchen windows, wanting out of our flashbacks.
I wave. I know everyone in this town. I’m filled with purpose,
because playing music makes everything a movie.
I appeared from nowhere, to tell you this. I will be gone
just as fast, turning the corner of University Drive

and Sixteenth Street, spelled out just like that. S I X
T E E N T H. I’ve never been this happy before
and I don’t know what to do with myself. The wind’s even
at my back. The sun is mostly down, 8 pm. Summer’s
listening, but only to an ’80s playlist, so we’re safe.
Why isn’t everyone doing this? America! What?
I don’t know. But it feels great out here. The trees say hi.