a late snow in early spring
and winter’s resurrection
has driven me west again

finding no warmth, I keep moving
discovering comfort in the friction
of my tires on the road

signs on the interstates
warn me to watch for falling rocks
and watching for too long
my eyelids are heavy
with more than sleeplessness

the stones pile up
this consciousness is an avalanche
too heavy to bear

the cramps in my back
express more than pain
at the hardnesses
of the beds I make

the strain of the chosen yoke
of self-imposed exile
drags me over asphalt
producing tensions
in my forms of resistance

my stench is not just
the lack of bathing
but sweat produced
in constant unsettlement

the pilgrims I pass
tell me it’s Good Friday
that, at least, makes sense

I wonder if I just said the word
made a motion towards simple faith
would I be saved?

if this is my personal Golgotha
I would ask for forgiveness
but I know not what I do