The Road Home, November

Twilight needling the eye – the fogged out,
whited out road collapsing
into goblin namelessness, withering
weird trees, half-light lure
of dog and deer
in the treacherous bearded fields—

Giving in to centuries-old, no-world silence—
head down, nape-of -the-neck
bristling attention
to far star-cauldron nothingness—

Papery-skulled, haggard
from the hard voiced night,
I come to myself
building a fire – webby, ochre light,
oily shadows, elemental
stonehenge geometry of logs, inscrutable
as the star-crossed bones of bison
bruise-blotting the clammy walls of the caves.
Later my son’s raw edged ancient crying
and soft-haired nuzzling.