No one quite remembers how
we wandered into these phantom
repetitions, day after day
of raising and lowering our tents.
Clouds like mittened hands
beckon from every ridge
changing arrivals
into exits as we
are slowly inhaled by a destination.
Half-asleep in the saddles
on our mares, we gaze
at one another
as one gazes at another driver
in slow traffic--

there’s not much to say.
White figures
like soft statues
circle around us in the night,
their hands pressed over
their hearts as if cradling
miniature orchids…
They say the secret is
to do the wrong thing calmly,
and dawn by dawn
ln mapless wonder
we are learning the landscapes
to avoid, learning
our one death perfectly.