In one corner of the kitchen, ski boots
cracked from cold, gaping:
You're hoarding something beneath that canvas canopy
she said as she watched the mountain pass,
valleys giving way to other valleys, deepening,
thick with accumulating weather, distance condensed
and distance distilled. Four gold ovals ellipsing into another dusk,
into another hue, as it was before that first rising.
And into the midst of the green moment, felled fruit, a landslide
and a radio echoing in an emptying room, your departure
repeating again and again. You stepped onto concrete with
nothing like surprise or expectancy, fearless, burl-like,
a knot forgetting itself, loosening into being.