on the night the moon roof opened & let in a heron

you were always telling me that they
are good luck; the heron with dimes
for eyes. they are glinting in the headlight glow
on the highway leaving philadelphia. 
i am starving which is to say it has been
six years since i've eaten anything
of substance. i live mostly on the hair of stars.
the heron plays with the radio. 
i have a credit card the size of a catastrophe.
my bank has over drawn three times this month
& each time i reach into my pocket & find 
it full of vole skulls. sometimes maggots.
to hunt for treasure is to believe in god.
i do not believe in god. i believe in herons.
the heron does not speak. rolls down the window
to feel the wind in his feathers. he steals
my telephone & calls you & i beg him not to.
i tell him, "i am not ready to be in love."
for me, it is always like a disease. the moon's chin
in the moon roof. her cloud skirts & whiskers. 
i do not know where i am going
& i do not want to find out. the way home
becomes less & less a destination & more
a craving. the desire to have you here
instead of the heron. the heron's jealousy.
he asks, "do you not want the prophecy?"
i could drive into the river, grow feathers,
& become one of them. you do not pick up.
i am headed towards you. the apartments
are one fire or else they will be. the heron asks,
"have you ever seen two herons at once?"
i am not sure & so i do not answer.
i drive until, at a stop light, i open the door
& push him out. regret floods my bones.
i roll down the window to tell him,
"i am sorry." he shouts back, "you are not sorry
you are scared." moon roof still open,
the moon spits a me. i drive onto turnpike.