“We might could.”

I remember driving,
descending into the Shenandoah Valley-
a volatile fate
disguised as a riverside cottage.

I remember hearing
the longing in a young man’s voice:
“And there’s a million things I haven’t done, just you wait.”

I remember my insides
resounding with such forceful agreement.

I feared for my heart
leaping toward my throat,
threatening to pour from my mouth
all the truth hidden behind
Empire apples, grist mills and burial books.

I drove toward Revolution
answering a Call
which had yet to be issued.

I drove toward Mountains.
I drove toward blood
and canonfire
and woodsmoke.

I dispensed with the Tudor rose,
in favor of Ferguson rifles.

And I drove
toward Enlightenment.


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