Light Years Away

Light is always years away, so when it’s here,
it’s not, is it? Like you, when we’re on 60, going 90,
your windowed reflection glares back at me,
in that typical disappointed way of yours,
while on the other side of the glass, you’re a shaman dream
overlaying the land, skipping from eons of archipelagos
to lakes, kicking past 2nd century tamarack shins,
and untouched, soaring, like your spirit told me it did,
between the rack of a moose, taken down by wolves
on the first day of spring.

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