you took in August, me
sitting in the aspens
reading poems from my first
journal, I'd forgotten there
was once a world without
words. I only looked at you
composing me with your Nikon:
What was it you saw in me
that I did not know? Anything
beyond the fact of the moment
framed, reading poems in the aspens,
giving the words life, if
only for a moment, listening
to the aspens flutter in the
warm wind.
That was the
last time I saw you, you know,
except that cold day I rode the
Greyhound across state
watching the old patched
highway, the trainline and
telephone poles, the cornfields
and the aspens, filling
my journal with words I would
never read because the
revolution had failed, time
and feeling fading behind
bus tires on the asphalt and
the insistence of winter.
