Mountains range the horizon. We commute
the coastal plain north, say no and no to
the radiant haze of burnt gasoline.
Ours. The bus driver rides the brake to shape
his timetable, but we can’t recognise
our stops because his time isn’t ours.
We close our eyes and follow the snowmelt
downhill, losing a little at each stream,
home at last, too tired to find the key,
so settle for alleys till they are full
of bodies, books sleeping with thin pages,
so frail the slight breeze mixes us up, so
his fury jackals against her sadness
and her nostalgia blooms and thickens
his regret and his nervousness ignites
her strength and the pages shred on chainlink
and we all arrive in the foothills as
bits of snow, bits of mist, and join with smoke
that coils from pits and timber piles serviced
by foreigners trying to burn the earth.