long enough,
like the gash of
snow left unmelted
perched on a pond’s edge
near Tabiont
and Maseser,
near the Green River
calling you
past nostalgia,
whispering stealthlongings
beyond Goshuts,
even Hovenweep,
where the spruce,
shaggy with snow,
bite the wind back
shifting through them,
the cold stones
of winter,
turning, returning us back
to the mountains,
and the water
running away, down
from the department
of ache, the agency
of salve and memory,
the bureau of recognition glistening
like the graffiti
Gyroscope Review 7
!