Where the earth splits
for final judgement
like holy burned bread
she will kneel
in a crater
and beg God to swallow her up.
But now her bag rubs against mine
on the bus up the mountain
in a most sinful way.
She talks about the river road,
how in December it freezes like a icy fist
and won’t let anyone pass
unless they walk;
how the Rockies holding
the sky are hands touching
heaven.
I ask her: fish with me
with this borrowed pole,
sleep with me
in this borrowed tent.
But at the falls
where air is thin and gray
we part ways.
I saw her loop through the pines
as alone and white as a bird.
No comments:
Post a Comment