of tire marks in the field
some kind of farmy field
on the way to my parents' home,
I got the spooks,
chest aches.
I always pass that way
although there is another
less traumatic route,
one that still ruffles the feathers
though I can't say why,
can't understand why any of it
really bothers me.
It's just dreams and daymares.
In The Field Dream
which was,
what,
eight years ago?
I was hovering over
myself in a car.
I was crying,
or at least
the Driving Me was crying.
Broken down breath stealing sobs.
Alone in an old red Chevy Beretta.
Swerving
squealing my tires
and finally drifting
off the road and into the
grassy tire ruts.
I knew it was my Place.
I knew that's where I stopped.
Forever.
Passing the field
awake,
now,
it's like walking over
my own
grave.
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