When you are driving through the mountains and it is getting humid and misty at 8pm, and signs say Chappaqua Mt. Kisco Katonah and you understood early there that you missed an exit and of course there is no map and no help on your phone which is fading from your hand every second anyway. What is that. When you keep driving anyway. And this 684 you have found yourself on winnows to something called 22. When it has in the evening suddenly become cold and humid, gray swathing everything, black mountains like arms there now to hold your world, is it the catskills now, after you pass Heidi's Motel white cabanas and a pool and cable tv and people seem to actually be vacationing there or something, placing bits of a home in and out of the back of stationwagons with their families, a mountain road now. A small office park, it's sinister, something has happened here, but you turn around and make it to 84 East and this is wrong too, this is Connecticut. You would never stop to ask and that is right. So 84 West. It gets you to the Taconic. Night is settling and everything you thought could be a snack is inedible, alien on the tongue. Too much. You have what you need already.
Everything sinking down. Every stupid thing you thought or said suddenly as irrelevant as being a teenager. The song--the one you forgot--comes on and in that instant every cell in you drops an octave.
Cold clear water, swimming in a night lake in the mountains: every cell in you. What is it then?
(Nothing to say, nothing through the mouth, the remaining july conversations on the sidewalk break away and crumble out of reality, the old lies release as the motor hums, a very low drum pulling forward from October, a shimmer, a glow through something pure.)
When it is dark green and dark blue and soft gray, and you know now that you haven't really been sleeping in years. A safety. In that little house off the road, you can now enter into the blackness you needed, and someone else will keep watch. This one simple familiar presence. Out of nowhere. Life lines and suicide crimes, there's something every day. If it's my way let me love you--mrs. jesus. Nobody has to do anything. It's all there. What is it? And you know it doesn't matter what it is. You wait but there is no waiting, you just drive and something in you would sing but you don't even need to.