one hundred twenty miles is a mighty long way
to stretch a lonesome heart.
Yes, mighty long
and weary,
and all that lies between you and I
the poised rise of the Mountain,
the silent span of lakes spreading us apart
have grown barren.
I have awoken on a sliver of wide bed.
I have seen the perfect circle of your iris
pulling thread through buttons.
I have turned your name around in my distracted brain.
I have wished that every word of love
would reach you, honey–
Over bridge and bank and burrow;
all the way back to your vacant hands
One hundred twenty miles.
10-12-10
