I have traveled without thinking about arriving.
With him, the unfolding was rich with thereness.
My father’s hands had broad palms.
The road smelled like new chip-seal
where we walked
our socks filled with cheat grass
yellow grass in a snow-patched backdrop
where elks chewed and stamped
sharp, sweet sage shined my skull.
He knew they’d be here
almost clear out to Moonhouse Ruin.
I miss the lines
inside my father’s hands
gesturing to the next point in elevation.
He measured the world.
I miss it out here, I tell him.
On the long road back into town
he asked when I was going to move back home.
He nodded to a low orange planet rising: a star among stars.
The purple stripes and clusters that trailed it
seem to only exist out here.
The stripe traverses the whole dome on clear nights,
the coldest nights,
down to both ends of the earth.
I look up, still not answering.
Leave a Reply