Our skulls are homes, nests, caves, and blinds
In which we often try to hide from the terrors
Of the truth outside. After having to drop
Daughter off at a corner coffee shop because
People make claims on one another, I left
Cedar City for the Great Salt Lake, three hours
And change north into the spreading night,
And all the way up I-15 I played the songs
That moved me most and loudly sang along,
Imagining an audience listening, a fantasy
More absurd than the one of winning a lottery,
But a temporary refusal of the real, capable
Of comforting me. And when will I sing again
With daughter in the car again? My skull
Is a conveyance for the collision of the worlds
And there is no inner haven in it, no outer
Real beyond it, for it, only the confusion
Of the singing that created enough light, just
Just enough to throw the shadows in the cavern.
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