Driving North with you in the music,
my arms in twilight remind me how you make
the world feel gentle around me.
. . .
I sing words that are not mine.
I sing words in cracked and shabby voice,
words that make me desperate for language to tell you
all the ways I learned to break my own heart.
Sitting still, moving forward.
Dusk dyes a flock of sheep indigo.
. . .
Let me tell you things I recall to pass time,
(because you are everywhere now,
throbbing against me like gravity in this music)
I saw your thumbprint and mine
woven together on a small pane of blue glass,
like delicate grooves in a shell.