Polaris is waiting. She watches the freeway.
And likewise my bride is asleep in our lucky
Oasis, her palm on my thigh as we're speeding
To home. In the back seat our baby is singing
To cattle and purrs at the orchards; delighted
By travel. The chance for a blowout's unlikely.
I've come to believe that my fortunate season
Won't end 'till my purpose is finished; that random
Occurrence is flooding in villages: distant,
Inhuman; a bride to the bullet's intrusion—
And never the northernmost star-beams of glamor
That draw all the drivers together. My baby,
I shout, do you see all the meteors streaking?
I startle my wife from her napping—she lurches
My elbow. The vehicle teeters and threatens
To tumble—I pray in that instant to nothing.
Polaris is sliding through darkness—she's wearing
A tunic of white and she slips through the window
And settles beside her next husband, who's sleeping
By starlight, in car seat; his father correcting
Their path through the valley; in search of true north.
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