.

at dusk
I drove towards the east as far as I could go,
the force of wind, my solitary horse, accelerating thoughts
beyond opacities, winter spreading thin, stretching time
like writing does, bisecting here-from-there with snowy
targets, blind like faith





at night
I copied out the lake, the sky, the moon
with a small blue pen that fit into my hand just so,
cold and smooth like light retracing wordsandvoice
in wordless variation, strumming ink with details
as if to hear him say (again) that god lies there