what is this new softness, as fingertips search
for the seam between then and here.
Dense and wooded, the distance between us, farther than
the most distant mountain I can see from my rooftop.
I cannot imagine how we have arrived here, me
who can imagine anything, and you, of whom I’ve dreamed.
Can you hope for an opening of the earth, like a sinkhole
that closes itself, bringing your house next to mine?
Then of course we would be neighbors, and you would be
the girl next door, and I? Silly boy, frozen in my yard.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment