the same old traps

it was fall and bay road curved

as it always did

i drove as i always do: fast
around the curves, one hand
in the dark.  everything was ordinary:

i was coming home to you.

and then it was

there.  like the sudden glory of anything new and impossible

a light appeared between the trees
pinkish, papery, the only light for miles.

it was a house inside-out, only
tarp and two-by-fours.  newborn

its burning heart revealed in the naked night 

gone at the next curve.

all winter

i waited for the meaning to come

and drove as i always did

in the dark—nothing
glowing but the ordinary: dashboard, headlights, cigarette.

you were gone.

i remembered the house, but i never found it again

and it meant nothing

no matter how many metaphors i tried.

it was

like you

mute

and

persistent.