Tonight all the stuffing pours out of your father—
the night sprayed with grease.

The night like a lantern
flashing
inside a girl.

You ride toward the fires.

You ride toward your father as you would
the sea. Your horse means

business. Its eyes like parsley, its teeth like shot
glasses. Poor father.

The fog batters everything.
It eats and eats.
The homesick constellations:

The Northern Tire Iron,
The Quilt of Marbles,
The Glitter-Sling, are torn down now

by the fog. When the ride is over
your father is there,

burning like a rest stop
in the mountains.
You smell the charred rafters.

You knock, knock, but
no answer. Your horse

will not enter. And you go in
now, you go in.