Driving Out

You stand over there.
This is the way you speak, across
a river, or from the window
of a passing car, or behind a door
in a room with boxes
spilling the guts
of another move. So, when you speak,
each voice from these places, together,
come to me, and share things they know,
but mostly things that
could not stay true.
I think it’s this way because
you always said you liked the way birds
will sometimes
land in a tree together,
or all at once
burst away.
Was this how I was meant
to understand you
through the untrackable passage
of reaching,
because only reaching comprehends touch
before it lands?
If so, I understand, or I did that night
I followed you, driving out
to the country
where the snow, for hours,
lay untouched,
except for the tire tracks,
behind me,
heading back.

– ph, Hamilton, ON 29/11/16

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