Sonntag, 25. September 2011


I find the map and draw a straight line 
over rivers, farms, and state lines.
The distance from A to where you'd be,
It's only finger-lengths that I see.
I touch the place where I'd find your face, 
my fingers in creases of distant dark places.

 I'm miles from where you are,
I lay down on the cold ground.
I pray that something picks me up
and sets me down in your warm arms.

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