Forward

The sound of light
striking rough against the hillside.

I am fond of this town,
spinning out
in a loom of rain and sun,
all its shining green threads

the way one is fond
of a mountain
on Mars.

That strange, sideways love,
found in the word ‘someday’
and in ‘used to.’

The red dust and the trumpet of light, and there,
there, suddenly there
the motes of humanity.