Can’t stop staring at the moon,
one day past full, steeped in this feeling
that the world is less divided by cliff and mud ruddled creek
than by frost.

There are barriers, sure—acres on acres
of pricklesome cactus, acres of mesa, trees set with fruit—
that come between what is and what is.

You over there. Me over here.
Between us too much room. And how many worlds
teem between our worlds. And how many ways

I try to straddle, to stretch, to leap like a mare
across the breach. I try to say words that you might say.
I draw your face on top of my face, trace your missing

weight on my skin. Canyon to canyon.
Desert to grass. I want to know your world.
I want to walk hand in hand

through all this not knowing what comes next.
What comes next. Frost. That is nearly sure.
But after that, let’s not even imagine. Let’s

not dream. Let’s just walk. And walk.
One foot in one world. One foot in another.
Moon on our cheeks. Night in our breath.

As it is even now. Smell of ice.
Spent blossom. Clear sky.

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