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I’m almost from here, but not 

quite. And what I mean by that 

lives always one street over 

from what I write. I used to lie

awake in Cabin 12 and ache 

to know just how it would be to be 

the guy the girl I want wants, 

how he must feel full and finished, 

something like the meaty bite 

of woodsmoke I still imagine

poetry tastes like. The world is a window 

we have seen through despite the fog

of our breath, called ourselves over

to see for ourselves only to arrive— 

always to arrive—on the tail end

 

of the fawn ducking the thicket,

the porpoise pod going dark 

to leave us gesturing in the general 

direction of absence. It's not

odd we wake in the night

with foot cramps: Sinking, 

toes forever flex for the firm of final

things in the breath-taking 

suck and swirl of

                           all this almost.