Turning the Gravel

You drove down the driveway,

the tires turning the gravel.

Your heart is scraps of lumber,

splitting mauls, and chicken wire.

You are raw skin with claws on the pelt.

You’re alive. You’re a sun in a circle.

You run a slug circuit under the shade

of sticker bushes. You scratch the ground

with your boots. You knock the fates with

the hot coffee in your thermos.

You know where bears hide their skeletons.

You’re not crab bait.