This is me mistaking bats for swallows.  
It’s a new story. This is me trying 

to change my mind. I’ve seen the door  
my family takes: my father,

my cousins, my uncle. Ends 
of rope, cold barrels gone hot & cold 

again in the hand. It is a shocking thing 
to know how possible finality can be:

the burden of it, weighing on backs.  
Look up: hear that cheeping that comes 

at dusk: focus on the sound of it: looking  
for direction, avoiding obstacles. 

There is no comfort in this. 

This is me hoping to find something  
in the resurrection moss. How it clings 

to limbs that make arches over the roads  
that I drive. This is me leaving the nail 

in my tire. Filling my tire with air every ten days. 
This is me leaving again. I’m scared

to answer the phone. This is me falling in love  
with the northwest breeze on the right street, 

a leaf swirling to the ground, the sound  
of someone’s voice through something 

plastic. The creeping shapes in my dark yard.  
When they die they hurt us all. I’m worried 

I wouldn’t even do that. Here comes the heat  
again, brewing, pushing me into places. Here 

is my little motor. Tweaked and ticking. This is me  
looking up. This is me mistaking swallows for bats.