People have ghosts
that follow them
over the mountains
they can be drenched
in the silver valleys
or driven atop the
small silver crests
of trees
in Maine
to the swollen rivers
of New Hampshire
with broken birch
and the green
green tree hill villages
of Vermont
with cinder block fences

this can’t be
real this is
ghostland night
highways clear,
fog valleys on all
fog drifting through
old abandoned barns
fireflies and
bats the only
life hot humid

my belly full
of nothing
but visions
old bars from
my childhood rides
with my father
Budweiser neons
fireworks shooting
up from the
woods like low
star debris
a toad beating
its voice
like a drum
my bladder full
of nothing
but rain
fires in fog
moon huge low
orange in my
sideview mirror

on the radio:
gonna go to
the river
gonna lay my
burden down

ain’t gonna
study war
no more
ain’t gonna study
war no more

gonna lay my
burden down