like the black cat
poised to rush into the road
dissolves into a rotting treestump

like our buried dog  
chasing my car up the driveway
vanishes when I turn to watch it

the broken link tells me
the thing I was looking for doesn’t exist

before the tractor shook loose the clot
that traveled to his heart
before the phone call shook me loose from my body
and confirmed what my gut knew

our camper waited behind the barn for us
to pull her to Zion
in a summer he would not live to see
I still have not seen Zion

like my neighbor with cancer
whose job was to haul gates
drives his diesel flatbed the same route
every hour through town  

or the bent, iron-haired woman
who quick steps the sidewalk
around and around the Methodist church
each dusk

patterns build predictions
the mind wants to keep alive

back in my body I have found my feet
walking, walking, walking
not to Zion
but in loop at the park

because I want to stay alive and because
the thing I was looking for doesn’t exist