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.