A thin red cedar by a small lake, clear and full
of life,  in the worn out remains of the top of the world
sings of madness

The lurid truth – there is a majestic impossible arc
that curves back on the unverifiable truth: We can not think
about another person, unless they think of us.

The tree bends into the last blush of a nowhere day,
the lake ruffles under the horizon’s gentle breath,
and we think of eachother and how light bends
around the gravity of our situation.