Lost is the Road

By Alexander Etheridge

It was long ago now, the way hail
kept falling into the open September street

right after flash floods there stripped back
hickory and willow roots.

This is our lives, how our story vanishes
into memories, into winter after winter.

Our faces blend into night snows,
and the plans we made break apart like

clumps of shadow in firelight. The road out of dark
is taken back into dark—a thousand bees

rush down from the moon. This is our dream,
the one like a vast city becoming

a heap of dust, or a long sleepless night
sinking suddenly into its faultlines.

And the coming hour is just a scar. Look now,
our path is gone just as it sets out—our history

is a fever the morning frost has. It started long ago,
hail, hail falling without a sound.

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