Polaris

[Miley]

Polaris

South of twilight
silver clots in the sky.
Polaris, Sirius, Orion,
each its own wound. 
We orient ourselves—

east of stars like stones
in a dark creek over-
brimming. Stones round
like the year’s round
plump, palmed, and swallowed

west of the headwind
pulling forth unknown origin:
a black cave’s salted breath
or days diving light. 

North of the updraft,
a great flood myth
trespasses the night.
I demand North.

North of borders—north of north—True north.
North of desperate peaks, sprawling roadways,
and trains gong-wobbling through the nocturnal fogs of collective uncaring.
North of dopamine songs pumpin dirty through cheap speakers, 
of useless catharsis, and leviathan caterwauls.

North of artificial light and iridescent roadside heat,
of gas prices, of syringes lurking like rattlesnakes in tall grasses,
of familiar bonds and bones and bones all together.

North of bountiful borealisms, 
of terrestrial hum drum. and beaten earth.
North of the same sun bludgeoning the sky into submission. 
I demand north.