The tracks run north to sipping sun
and south to highway gas that rises
off hot concrete. It lulls you some,

you think, as heat escapes, it tries
to catch the trees ablaze. You chose
the tracks because the tracks will cry

no one and freedom, but the roads
are full of watchful eyes. Your arms
won’t reach the sky, you still will boast

they take to water like a torn
paper airplane. The wind from west
and wicked oceans straighten worn

and worried hair. You spin, you twist
from plank to nail. Sun sets on cheeks
with frantic blood and wilted wisps

of bashful breeze. You left, still weeks
from home. You’re finished, dried, uncooked
with feet ablaze, you cried for weak

you screamed. The train screams past; air shakes;
you walk; your ready heart unshook.