I make a right turn
toward a life twenty five years ago—
where did this field
of wild iris come from?
On the radio, someone
is singing, “I am the one
who’s not anymore.”
I begin to notice
I don’t know where I am.
There are no signs
for where I want to go.
I am as much the road
as the one driving it,
the field of wild iris,
the voice on the radio,
the right turn itself.