89
On
Hop-‐Scotching
Across
this
Rock
Lying
in
the
bed’s
knit
tangle,
slick
and
spent,
trying
to
decide
what
to
do
come
summer.
I
say,
"New
York’s
too
expensive."
You
say,
"We
could
always
live
in
the
woods."
And
with
no
more
sounds
but
wordless
whispers
we
imitate
the
twisted
linens
with
our
own
hot
limbs.
Northward
into
the
thicket,
wild
peninsula,
turning
our
backs
to
the
Belt’s
rusted
husks,
using
maps,
not
satellites.
Thunder
Bay
is
where
we
cross,
Grassy
Lake
and
on
to
Riding
Mountain,
with
its
water’s
cold
shock,
chest-‐deep
and
so
clear
we
can
see
the
clay
between
our
toes.
Crossing
back
we
trade
the
interstate’s
blue
veins