(from Mari for Mick)
Some place a horse
shines on the field. Some place the ants
trek the foothills of the grass.
Maybe love comes and goes
and maybe comes back, scrap of news
from places we lived.
Or it’s too late for everything,
childhood and sunglaze
gone from the river. And this
is a grim little song, sister.
As we fly away from each other,
unrepeatable, ordinary,
years away, miles later
Or we’re free. That’s
what I wanted, always: to be.
Among the white horses.
Among the fields of yellow kale.