East Zion's white clouds let the moon slip through their fingers
As I drove toward them, home to the mystery never home.East mountains' white clouds said continue moving, even
If it's evening, even if winter falls. I have yet to fail successfully,
But my whole body, whole sensorium ached to arch over
The swift plunge, the slow collapse, the humiliation pulling
On the crutches that have propelled me from chair to car to bed again.
I would need failure to overtake me before I crawled away again.
I smiled in the dim of the moon and the dashboard lights. What
Silliness, such hushed drama, not yet home to the home
Of nothing doing. It's silly to be sad, and my daughter says I'm silly.
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