Gran Torino Gigan

Like crawling into a forest at night, that station-
wagon, as piney, as vast. Branches shushing.

You could spend your entire childhood
in the way-back. Buzzes fade up front,
where beltless adults murmur and smoke

after unfurling musty sleeping bags
in the trunk, mine printed red, white, and blue

in senseless zigzags, with a sharp zipper.
Numberless cousins nested there, lulled

to sleep as soon as the big car creaked
onto the parkway, green like a pine forest

of the mind. Unfurled on a musty sleeping bag,
I wouldn’t sleep for years. The stars
are such old ideas, suggesting patterns but

Even Wheels Have Edges

Winter tricks you into thinking
it’s the only certainty. Yesterday:
stark. Tomorrow: cold and gray.
Transformation? No such thing.
Sometimes branches writhe and wring
out a gleam, then hush, as if to unsay
it. You wonder if it’s possible

to change. Then, one morning, wings.
How ridiculous. Flower snouts essay
upward, unfold, and babble away
their scent and softness, unstinting.
You wonder if it’s possible.