all day my left hand has been
so much colder than my right
the sun barely rises
a plane circles as if lost
it feels like a mirage
this snowlessness in january
leafless treetops intricate
against the clouds
frozen bubbles in an old pond
where frogs sleep
i have been playing scholar
reading commentaries on commentaries
now i walk a trail that doesn’t bend
for more than a mile
as if i needed to know
what solitude looked like
beside the unflagging river
somehow older than the hills
yellow trucks lined up beside
a blue-gray mountain of gravel
where highways meet
under a clearing sky
hemlock trees have found footholds
in crumbling shale cliffs
at the trailhead an inverted canoe
shelters three shelves of books
i read the titles: a time to kill
to love again
i only know who i am when
i am somebody else
which could be a commentary
on writers of commentaries
but the sky seems like
a good place for canoes
all this walking i do
has led me to a delusion
that there’s such a thing
as solid ground
when it’s just my feet
learning how to take root