She wants to visit the Grand Canyon.
From the Colorado, the walls
fold over me. The air becomes
thick. It turns to stone.
I want to visit Yellowstone, feel
the Earth’s heat press against my feet,
as though I had stopped falling.
She climbs into bed. Open
the window, she says. I like
to feel the cold air falling over me.
I open the window. The sound
of traffic is like the glowing eyes
of coyotes prying into a meadow
from the edge of the woods.
I come to bed.
Nothing ever has to die,
I say. I don’t know if she
understands; but before I fall
to sleep, she takes my hand.
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