Why do I think you are here
with me still, taking note?
I pull off the highway,
end on a dirt road as usual.
Strangers look long, out their way,
as if destiny is known. I wish
you were gone, really, truly gone,
that that would sink deep in,
become an organizing piece of truth,
allow everything here to be born anew,
begin afresh, no shadows hovering,
twisting forms out of shape, to and fro.
But it remains just a hypothesis.
I am on the road to you, right now,
as I always am, whether you are here
or not, whether you are true or not.
When I look out toward the horizon,
consider the outlines of trees
blackened by the distant mist,
oddly shaped, glorious against
the bright fog I cannot see past,
arrives the simple conviction
that here is my compass, radiating
all I can see, all I will never see.