by which | you trace | an origin  
but what if | the place | that used  

to be its nest | disappears 
changes hands | changes its names 

you can still | think | about mountains 
framing the view | to the south

church steeple | to the north | as though
the only thing | that mattered | was 

clearing | a path for the sun | to cut 
across | the eastern sky | its steady 

blade heading for | its sheath | which is
how you know | line by line | the distance 

that | measures you is sure | something it
has been doing | all this time | all along

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.