Without Compass

As the sky glares and throws up

its horizons, I am night-tromped, near empty.

The stars twinkle with ill gossip. Bad omens

shake the landscape. The earth creeps

with beasts more unnameable

than self. I just want the grass

to stay grass, but I haven’t learned

how to spend life without worrying

what lies beneath the plain’s cloak:

toe stubs and undead arms,

rattlesnakes and rusty nails.

Whenever I appear here, I fear

I have nothing to offer. I’ve crashed

into every stillness as soon as it appears.

I’ve begged peace to storm

into me. The fact is, I am not good

for the chase. Every gentle thing

escapes me. I don’t feel ready

to run barefoot. To have everything

in the dirt impress

itself into my heels.