I’m Found Every Time You Turn Around To Find Me There
You take my arm through this dark part of the country.
We hold each other up whisper-stepping down this hill in the late night morning of our new century.
We’re drunk-laughing out of fear of what we can’t see and our false confidence isn’t enough to shield us.
While the sky is clear, the ground remains in shadow, the light of the moon fractured, obscured by pines, maples, oaks — their twisted canopies alive with sharp fanged critters and croaking complaints.
Finally through the woods, we stumble upon rolling green lush grass lit by moonlight so clear it should have a soundtrack, and we ought to know
exactly which way to go.
You pick a leaf off my sleeve, toss it like salt over your shoulder, hook my elbow in yours, and look at me as if
I’m supposed to guide us, though I’m pretty sure I’m the one who’s lost.
Only, I’m found every time you turn around to find me there, staggered by the given again,
the fact of us still a fact, still true even in the unravelling light of these short hours before sunrise of a new day.