highway through the dirt

Wind pulled at my hair

on the old edge

of Edmonton

before the highway

paved over the chairs

left out in the snow

to watch stars

before the haze rose.

Snakes and rats

tangled in the backyard —like me.

Now I see the swing set

my father built

as I drive by.

Its beams climbing

over the fence,

still lifting me

to where the stars

have vanished—

blurred

beside red-lit towers.

I see my ghost 

in the dirt.