In the planetarium, an indigo bunting,
wings clipped to keep her away
from the falsely turning sky, navigates
toward the most stationary star. She will
do the same given a sky full of made-up
constellations. She recalibrates in days.
Long haul truckers drive
the circumference of earth in distance
and continue, like starting a novel
over again the moment it is finished.
The tree upheaves the sidewalk daily.
Your blood travels miles per hour.
When you understand what you are
running from, the difference between
exploration and exile is negligible,
the quarter mile of platform
past the depot beckons you to chase
after every departing train.