YOUR FIRST TIME DRIVING THE MILFORD BLACKTOP

There isn’t a bend in this road
all the way from 59
to Milford, not a ripple.
You could lay brick on the fence lines.

Most of what you see
the glaciers left,
O’Brien County like stained glass,
distant swelling,
groin deep black soil;
the sky is a green mist
near May City.

Night and cold water lie ahead.
Fish with eyes like mirrors
move out of their dreams,
bending their spines, ice
gone out of them at last,
waves breathing for them,
filling their clean jaws with light.

This is the other end of the line.
You can find your way here with no more
directions than these. Just be mindful.
Watch for stones collapsed like broken teeth
across the grade, the tightness of bark
about your legs and belly, your fingers
growing numb, disappearing,
feathers blowing across your palm.

Afterward, you will know everything
anyone knows about this road,
how close the sky is, how patient
the tireless curve beneath you,
how far the wind can travel
before it turns, building speed
at the corners of your eyes.

You will know at last
what it’s like to drive both ways,
what big engines were made for,
whiskey and high beams,
and there won’t be a star
in the north you haven’t touched,
an animal of any shape
you haven’t been.