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In the place where the road pulls itself over the train tracks
like a diaphragm teasing lungs open

as the sun goes down over the train tracks
and they both leave the city,

a motorcycle makes a frantic heartbeat sound
which I interpret as the arrival of the beloved
to dispel my earnest confusions.

It leads me through the catechism
I learned when I was young:

'Are you good?'
'I don't know.'

'What do you want?'
'I don't know.'

'When you hear the motorcycle make its sound
and the sun goes down behind the train tracks
where the road lifts up over them, do you think
what a person thinks
about that?'
'I don't know.'

There is enough don't-know for clothes
and food and fuel. Enough to make light
and block it out, for sleeping and waking.
Enough for now and enough for later. How long?
Don't know, don't know.