floyd, easter

in paradise, in floyd
county off thompson road
on a hilltop with crows and robins singing
about how from the house of winter they
saw bloody footprints run north into
trackless places, here

where i search my mind and
find nothing but
the afternoon,

i will say this:

i will say again that there are djinns here;
there are spirits that knew me before i
knew them and they call me by name.

and they assure me that they have my
best interests at heart and

they talk about the music of my self
and they tell me that they understand
what happened in moneta and what
happened on i-581 near the hershberger road
exit in the back seat. they know, they say,

because they saw them all, they say,
and want me to come home.

they are telling the truth. and
i fear what will become of me if i
forsake them and they
forsake me in return,

but what if they are lying, and what if i
am lying too? a little certainty, you know, is
such a dangerous thing,

the thinking, “i am on the right way”—
when thither there’s so much to suffer from.

so i will say this:
i fear i’m now in love again, but

do not know
with what.