The daughter worries the father
will turn from himself
into someone else as he drives
across the endless state
where he was raised. (The father
and the daughter can only meet
in dream.) From the passenger seat,
the daughter's eyes snap at grasses.
It isn't clear if the father hears
when she asks do you know
where you're going, do you know
the year. The daughter awaits
the father's response. On and on,
the field a flat audience. Parting
the weeds, the daughter's eyes
repeat, do you know who you are,
who am I. The sky outgrows
the windows — the father's hands
steady the wheel, his forward
stare, the car's invisible line
bisecting air.
My daughter worries
I'll turn from myself
into someone else as I drive
across the endless state
where I was raised. (My daughter
and I can only meet
in dream.) From the passenger seat,
her eyes snap at grasses.
It isn't clear if I hear
when she asks do you know
where you're going, do you know
the year. She waits. Anyone,
anyone. On and on, the field
a flat audience. Parting the weeds,
her eyes repeat: do you know
who you are, who am I.
The sky outgrows
the windows — my hands
steady the wheel, my forward
stare, the car's invisible line
bisecting our air.