Solar Return

He hid the fire in a tall hollow stalk of fennel, out of the sight of the great one who delights in thunder. —Hesiod, Works and Days   In those mountains he met others walking in the same direction. Backpacks, black plastic garbage bags, food sacks, a girl with two hard-boiled eggs, the shells flaking

There’s a fist
making its way up the Venice boardwalk,
a cocked fist aiming. Its name

Not his ride-on pony, but its print on the grass. (    ) Galloping white space gathering its fields. Nicker whisper. Thunder burn. (   ) Once at Angelo’s grocery, I reached for a small boy. (   ) We thought, perhaps Rhode Island. Or a border town nearby. (    ) The stars on his face haven’t mapped