"Truth is, I've always been a fool."


First snapshots, headshots, glimmers
here a hint a wonder there.
Crosses arms, bends to the page,
tilts her voice of no concern.

There are trees that were pushed up
from the ground through the snow caps.
There is earth kneaded into
mountains. Houses stacked on the
sides of the hills, backed by trees,
only woods between home and
the wild wild. There are no men here.

Roads lead off through the trees, signs
for towns somewhere who knows how
far away. We make it through
the dark grasslands in the night.
Almost no one on the road,
but the stars hang in the sky
like fruit. The high city spills
out like a box of marbles.
The sun has sails, the sky roars,
it soars, white clouds bellied out.
There are ink drops scattered in
a bucket of blue. Every
handful of trees, so precise,
so beautiful. There’s more, I’ll say,
there’s always more.

We—she and I—crawl for three
thousand miles to be there where
she looks at me sideways, says
something with her eyebrow, like
the sun on a broken day
hiding behind the bangs of
the country. Always, I’ll say,
it’s never too long. And both
are just waiting to come back, just waiting.