little repeating machine
he could never leave new england
he’d drive this sputtering engine
only to find the signs turned back
and again his tires creeping through
thompson or grafton or lincoln
he’d sigh cut the engine and walk
into whatever diner still
spoiled in that town of
towns he thought it an ancient
curse and followed down the
pine tree to pursue its host
what can you find in that dark
humus but bugs and life and
all these infinite eyes
little repeating machine
he could never leave new england
he’d look down and see his nails had
grown needed cutting slough his gaze
to the wrinkles in each knuckle driving
the bone this webbed inward life he’d
feel the cold whisper his socks he felt
alone with his hands the same ones
reaching out for everything monkey bars
bloodroot his mother’s apron he’d reach
out to the town squares & lighthouses
to the steering wheel his steering wheel
he asked to go he was ready to leave
but something asked more of him something
like a father’s basement coffee cans of nails