For a plateau cut by mountains,
I have never seen a sun so adamant
on not setting.
For a town of no one,
I have never seen a road so adamant
on staying awake.
There is a big sky
you cannot see when driving through
ground blizzards, alive as teeth.
There are two hotels to choose from.
One is made from lathe and plaster.
The walls remind me of shooting stars
and their paths.
I am cupping my hands
to catch them.
Do you ever feel trapped in open space,
he writes in a letter.
Which is just a piece of paper
he also writes. I respond:
A ski is a split piece of firewood
with a hidden agenda.
I take off my coat and have hands
that aren't mine inside my skin,
Submerged, a recreational scuba dive.
I look for fins.
Pulpwood is scattered
everywhere.
The chinook winds pushed their way
into my bedroom that night,
unlocking the door with her bare breath.
Enough of all the warm days next to ice days,
take your lumber to Wyoming, she says.
There is whole space and a psychedelic sky.
For a place so close to home,
I have never seen a landscape so adamant
on feeling borrowed.
For a piece of paper so thin,
I have never seen wood so adamant
on keeping us warm.
I look for a sunset.
There is light
and it is everywhere.