Nations buckle under my feet—
my fool head in the clouds rolling by;
trying to count too many voices
when there are
too many voices to count.
There are angels, oh yes, there are.
They clamor to become
the shield they feel I have lost,
or before birth
I was never given.
I love them, and kneel at their feet.
There are devils in highway train stations;
crouching in-between small cracks;
fissures alongside the tracks,
alongside the way
on The Way.
I relinquish them to their mercies—
it is only the sun
I seek now.
Nothing is certain but Law.
And even Law has its coven of infinite
loopholes and warps
when the heat
finds a way
the ice in my pocket contracts,
giving birth to the crossroads ahead,
rising beneath my still feet.
The light is twilight plum/gray
as the cries of the many die off.
The whistle moves on without me,
out of road.
© Kristin Reynolds 12 17 2010