Squaring the Circling Way
No photos exist for those days,
the ones leaning into each other
as our bodies sought out spaces
where we both could be
and old lives fell away as old ways will
when the stretch into new
forms a view on the world.
For this town was our world:
a lake, a dog chasing down a piece of tree.
And we found our way finally
to the home made bed,
ringed round with glass,
the mirror, old image, paned way out.
That room became a crucible
where we distilled what would remain –
that which we’ve beaded out
these last four years
bright to behold and molten to the touch,
molding what will not lie still
but circles round, searching out its own tale.