I remember the dry grass of Nebraska, grey to distant blue. I stopped on hills like slumping shoulders, car cooling, I took off my shoes. I drove out west with my sister, she talks more than I do. When she fell silent still I’d miss her, the sound of the wind coming through.
I remember the smoky cups of coffee at the continental divide, mesas strange and red and snowy. I felt like I’d arrived. I walked on the streets of California in the wail of car alarms. Men would shout out to me passing; a stranger with crossed arms.
I remember the subtlety of canyons black by the roadside; a cut in the rocks as I was passing, just a glimpse as you go by. If there’s something you always are losing – you may not recognise. If there’s something you always are choosing – something disguised.
Lately I find myself lonely – I wouldn’t have called it that before. I always took it as a comfort – what all the distance was for. If you can’t leave clean as a statement – so true that you almost wince. If you can’t leave, you get yourself taken – like a personal eclipse.

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS