Backwards
I was still in love with Josh.
In the fog-handled edges of the trees
in the photos
from most the pictures on the island
it tells me so
It’s the muted corners that blur
the edges
in to things that are one or the other
but not because the starts and ends
seem all the same
At that point eighteen months had passed
since we'd pained our presence
with physical remembering
But only two weeks since
we’d talked on the phone. I know
because in other pictures there
is the party at the beach
me up too late
with people half my age
me readying
to sleep with someone
way too young
Archiving photos now makes me wonder:
Is this the way we move on?
Travel far away with some new heart
reckless and beating in the hungry hand
walk for miles around and around
a same small plot of strange land.
Do we ritualize the expanding of limits
the exercising of what one is capable of?
And should that too fail us
is it a certainty,
we will tramp back over the path feckless
as animals in the barnyard
oblivious of the routes
we insist on
because as always they will return
us home?
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