One season, I caught a rat under a recycling bin
and waited for letters. This became less an activity
and more a solid thing activities play out against,
like built-in storage units, or a trampoline flush
with the floor, or even a long, quiet pipeline riffing
some crucial element from nowhere special
to nowhere else. My memory of this time
looks like a demo reel coaxed from cutting room
floor-scraps of an unfunded mumblecore flick.
The urge to package events by their season
is strong. Someone told me recently that a country
should be what you can drive across in a day.
When I went to see the place the letters came from,
I spent three days watching scenery trill past
windows wide as bedsheets, like stock footage
overriding a green screen to offer proof of motion.
I arrived in patio season. The sun regularly
outstayed what I considered its welcome.
A cluster of coincidences had hooked in me
like the barbed end of a taser, convinced me
to cross the ungainly country in the first place.
I’ll admit, I was looking to feel synchronicity
blooming underfoot like a small rampage
of low-grade earthquakes, and my instrument
for measuring inevitability was probably
more sensitive than it needed to be.
I took a different land-locked route home,
but the view was the same.