Breaking loose from the state line of Illinois, bursting down the Indiana toll road, near Lake Station heading south, smelling smoke of old gray steel mills seeping out of Gary, left behind me, steel men, strong men, ribs of fire, courage of union dreamers, long gone, most laid off, pension plans stolen, now gas station employees, travelers of the past, snuff chewers, and labor wages- small lakes and fishing ponds with half-sunken boats with tips pointed sky high, and memories dripping off the lips of clouds. I’m banging out 75 mph, in my raspberry Geo Tracker, but as Jesus said: “I tell you the truth, nothing ever changes in Indiana but the seasons and the size of the corn ears.”

Piecemeal summer dies: Long winter spreads its blanket again. For ten years I have lived in exile, locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders jostled up against the open Alberta sky. If I were young again, I’d sing of the coolness of high mountain snow flowers, the sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows; I would dream and stretch slim fingers into the distant nowhere, yawn slowly over endless prairie miles. The grassland is where in summer silence grows; in the evening eagles spread their wings dripping like warm honey. If I were young again, I’d eat pine cones, food of birds, share meals with wild wolves; I’d have as much dessert as I wanted, reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingers. But I’m not young anymore and my thoughts tormented are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery from torture of war and childhood. Inside the rush of summer winds, outside the air beaten dim with snow.

I work my mind inward into a corner of knots. Depressed beneath brain bone I work my words, they overwork me. Fear is the spirit alone, away from God. Hospital warriors shake pink pills, rattle bottles of empty dreams. I walk my ward down the daily highway; I work the roadmap of spirit, weed out false religions. Only one God for so many Twelve Step programs. I wrap myself around support groups, look for dependency within their problems. I publish my poems, life works, concerns on floor five. I edit my redemption, escape from the laundry room; run around in circles like planet earth, looking for my therapist to seal my comfort.

Gravediggers uprooting caskets with sharp, steel shovels- with each slicing step downward through nerve-rooted earth cooper pennies jingle in change purses dangling by their sides. They chat casually of Jesus, His painless resurrection from the sealed tomb, moneychangers being chased away from God’s holy temple.

I blink, the electricity is off. The day has brought night to an end on top of me. Lamp oil and flashlights save me from myself. I walk in darkness. In this darkness I don’t see my shadow. When the wind goes still cold chills down my spine don’t feel anymore. I walk in darkness like this but I’ve been fooled myself before at Halloween, fears of July thunderstorms. July thunderstorms have knocked the lighting out of me. Pulled the electricity out of my sockets, pulled plugs from my condo. Lying in bed with only this conversation to keep me company. I feel like an ice tope insulated around in my words, Looking for images in shadows, quiet corners. I creep myself alone. Here I lie on my back in bed, think, try sleep- with ghosts, witches, spiders, devils, and all kinds of nasty things. Nothing brings Christ out of closed wilderness faster than darkness being alone. I blink, and electricity is back on. July, I’ve been fooled like this before.

Fireball hurls into Arizona sky. Summer sun is blasting away at desert sand like a dragon- baking down on cracked and crusted earth- makes a desert cactus split its rubber skull in half - flood dry open valley with one cup cool, clear refreshing water.

You rest in this empty hospital room. Your repetitious words, spoken to yourself, stumble over one another. Everything is in holes and pieces. The strange ear-ringing sounds of silence broken by occasional voices in the hall- the shadows pushing the lights around like street bullies- the sparse furniture all changed, each strange piece placed differently than you would have it at home. But you’re not at home, you’re in this empty hospital room, resting. Everything is in holes and pieces.