Notes toward a gathering hope–

that I am elsewhere–then I am
under your rock, in Utah,
in my mind–
nothing says otherwise.

This morning, I drank
a cup of coffee with magpies–

you were here, in a deer-dress,
by yourself.

Did you see the trees,
how through you every leaf tries–
the way any of us do– to be lost,
alive, in the glow-of-things.

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