I keep writing the stuff. I feel it more than I write it and then when I write it it doesn’t come out the way I felt it. It’s terrible. It makes me very sad that all my twelve-year-old poems are so bad, because they were what I felt.
Not sure if I need to practice more or listen better or what, but anyway, I’ve been writing more, and this one is not half, nor yet quarter, what I wish it were – there is nothing in these words which captures the loveliness of the last rays over the sagebrush as we plowed through it hand in hand, but I tried.
two rovers
(for sam)
the sun in his heaven
is watching us, darling —
do you see him, blinking,
as dazed as we are?
where do these hills end,
darling, do you know?
No —
don’t tell me
let’s just go.
Oh God it’s lovely up here
with a noisy city ignoring us
and you —
and setting sun and holding hands
and winding path and rocky lands
and it never will matter
where we’re going.
Not that it needs to.
Let’s just go let’s get out of here —
we’re right in the city’s middle still
but in this wilderness
of sagebrush and light
all I see is you, darling —
and I cannot see where you end.
