You worship the ground
that took me in full shovel embrace,
you wished me well
as I trekked past
skulls on post
lined up like
road signs
advertising a place
to sleep for the night,
I dreamed of you
while in hotel rooms
in cold cities,
steaming breath
twined with steam from the coffee,
I wrote your name
a hundred times
on stationary paper
in a hand I couldn't read,
We remain
in present tenses
with senses confused
by what where we've been until now,
in photos
drinking cocktails
waving to ourselves
when the old drawers are pulled open.
