OVER THERE
Just on the other side of what we see
lies the land of unborn dances.
Hovering lightly above our heads
wavers the offer of solace.
What we’ve tried to become
is in the next town.
What we need is in the town after that.
A few tall, summer trees
hide the applause of our fathers.
Freedom is an accidental turn to the left.
Love sprawls in a tangle of weeds
left by the mower.
What we mean to each other
settles like surf against the sand,
again and again.