One evening early

in February,

at Vine Swamp,

North Carolina,

near the graves

I had driven there

to look for,

I put my eye

to a bullet hole

in a stop sign.

--And there was the moon,

in a ring of space

in a ring of rust.

It was like touching

my eyebrow

to an eyebrow,

or trying to,

long ago...

like tiptoeing up

to a keyhole,

and kneeling down

and being seen

all the way

to the back of the skull,

feeling my name

carved there.