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    • Shelter in Place
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  • Black Hole
  • At Night
  • ABOUT
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hungermoon press

  • Works on Paper
    • Shelter in Place
    • Ultraviolet
    • Black Summer
  • These are our few seasons
  • River Prints
  • Cooling Water
  • home·land | pодинa
  • Black Hole
  • At Night
  • ABOUT
NOLS - OEC-4.jpeg

Lights, WY

February 10, 2018

 

It was the last flare out

I watched his hands mimic the affairs of the universe.

And fall out of the light of the fire. 

Boot pressed up against a boulder. 

As if he were holding it up. 

 

It’s the sink and the rise that no one understands

It will end up feeling like a thought you had when you were younger.

Something worth leaving home for.

But we can’t know it until we’re in it.

Don’t think I’m past asking you to sing it 

Sing it to the westerly wind and the waxing moon. 

 

And we’ll wash our clothes in the river because it’s simple 

We’ll navigate The Divide

A dry and muted moon shows her face in the mornings 

Unaware of the difference between willing and telling. 

But I could tell you the difference between waxing and waning.

How you can sense in which direction we are all moving.

Until the moon abandons a Wyoming sky on a subfreezing night

That this couldn’t be left to happenstance

The way the water wouldn’t glass over to show the stars

And when I talk about the stars,

I’ll mean the way they overlap and extend eternally

 

There’s a storm in the south east of the country 

We wont know much more than that, really after the fact.

Wrapped in this wilderness where man cannot stay.

All the while the smoke is rising out of the forests of Montana

 

And I will forget most of my time here.

But I might, years later, recall a friend crying in the kitchen

When we’re waiting for the pot to boil.

Because she doesn’t have a reason as to why. 

Or how the wind has never felt softer. 

The two of us sitting eclipsed

By the river. Water carving rock.  

The river so loud.

How at this time I was still lost. 

In thought and in habit

And softly letting go in a rainstorm,

“This is okay, I am breathing still.”

 

How the sun will leave us, 

Breaking over the canyons, 

the mountains, 

That still, after all this time,

Pushes up an expanse of lights

We know only the beginnings of

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