Three weeks from Los Angeles,
My brain as streaked and grimy as the old train platform.
But the journey left bright traces, surprising deposits
Of goodness and meaning. Sweet things. And regret.
You never know at the beginning what those will be,
Or which turns lead you to them.
These traces are always what remain.
They are the point of it all.
I wake up sometimes before the sun comes up.
A freight passing through town pulls two blasts on his horn.
I feel a restlessness stirring, and smile.
And then I drift to sleep, the bed rocking gently back and forth
Like it did that one dawn, the sun rising
Angry, dry and bright in New Mexico.