on my final run at dawn, my feet levitated above the river bank

soybeans, corn, lentils, chickpeas, carrots, tobacco leaves, peas, and flowers of all varieties fell into my hands and mouth.

With rose thorns I cut a hole into my pants pocket and gave my keys to the empty corridor, 

now we are ready to fly 

I drank leftover Kokanee on the drive to Spokane, to forgive that place, and to celebrate extending past it: They say sing while you slave but I just get bored…I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s Farm no more, no I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s Farm no more.


My father confused on the phone, not knowing where I’m going, unaware that I’m leaving