Inside me a cup fills
with blood     I empty
into a truck stop toilet
white porcelain stained
briefly red     Atlanta
haze tows the hours out
What tradition for a futureself
If I imagined chestnuts
spilling down my back
a flowing, a pony-like
I was wrong     a rock
occupies my brain
Lichen-headed, crusty
I remain fruitful
from my body I gather wine
vials of balsam grape skins
a glove compartment full