Stirred together with a whisk made of weathered telephone poles
Like the ones we saw as children, driving across the Great Plains
In the back of a too-small car — never wondering if we were there yet because the counting and the waiting and the politics of accusation were all
Take a dollop of memory, lighted properly now, with the bad bits washed away.
Mash it with the heel of your hand, up to your wrist, bathing in a gelatinous concoction of
Tentacles and viscous images that refuse to leave,
The once welcomed boarder who has overstayed.
Where it comes from we suspect, but can’t quite know. Where it’s going,
We are sure,
Can be measured in the creeping days, some of which might be ours.