Landon McGee
I dreamt I drove an old red Ford your way,
down a road of summer vineyards and when
that became too much I found myself
pushing a cart through aisles and aisles of mulch
and potted plants and when that became too much
as well I found myself shouldering
between narrow racks of last year's blouses
and ancient woolen coats and when even that
was too much for the me I was that night,
so world-weary and out to sea, finally—
my open hand, settling the duvet draped
over your bare shoulder as morning birds
began their mountain-songs in the dark.