When I return to the scene
of all crimes committed

by/against

me, I have to swim
through hot wind
as it riles the lake.

I return—
funeral after funeral—
the weddings all done.

Mostly botched.
I shut my eyes and pray
for someone to reboot

the country. No, make it
the world. Please, please
admire the deer as it crosses

the road. Don’t shoot.
Ride with the top down.
Drop a name to enter

a private yacht club.
Trespass with glee.
Let the sun settle

in pink streaks
over the river and lake
and sink behind the spit

of land between.
I have always been #3
or so. He scrawled it

on the envelope
that contained the only
letter he ever wrote

me. Born into a country
in mourning, I cry
too easily. White knuckles

and disturbances
beneath my feet, I fly away.
A carousel I cannot forget

appears when I blink.
For the one
who catches it,

the brass ring
could bring another revolution—
not merely another turn.