Clouds and storms hover
Over us like a lost thought.
A strange idea we once had – to build a log cabin together
and hide in worlds beyond our own –
but our lives were surmounted by menial tasks
and we never got around to our plans like the campfire and the hang-gliding
and the paintings of a dry winter and the umbrella of youth
closing slowly but surely on all these things we remember later
in our circles of routine.
We were deserted but they were also forgotten.
Our plans, like the compass above a rooftop and the wolf we patted at the Indian neighbor’s house, calming us like a real thing can.
