in the palm of my hand is the wind
that blew through us
alone in your room with a pen
like Meriwether Lewis
or Johann Sebastian Clarke
on your knees with a flame in the dark
you crawled after them

ain’t you on that big white horse
that almost threw us
why can’t you ride past our door and pretend
you never knew us
and when you’re done
do you think you could do us
a good turn

I’m talking to you
you like to think you redrew us
but you know
you really only tried to undo us
someday the deed will be done
to mark through us
but we’re done
with you


Copyright Hills Snyder, 2004