Witch-grass

The white spiked-hair blossoms of a midnight field

I drifted into thirty-three summers ago             I wanted to be

a movie star then but vaguely as I had neither the looks

nor the confidence         faintly I could hear waves lapping

the shore of the lake like someone’s mother patting her

back         I didn’t realize I wasn’t committed to anyone or

anything but needed to be         like how I was lying

or maybe hiding in a blue field at midnight         I wanted to live

in California and be known by important people

not anyone I actually knew         my worries tended to do with

blood cycles and sometimes bills             nights of vodka drinks

with lemon peel                                     having to find

a place to lie down within         the added discovery of a new

person             freeways slick with escape and promise

he and I hardly breathing amid faraway car sounds         heads

full of plans         the future spread out in an endless tarry sky