The end of the line
We crossed this border so many times,
going to visit your family
or returning to our own.
Rather than a river of rapids and rocks,
our crossing was an imaginary line, a sign
sped past at 75 miles per hour.
With this poem I’m erecting a new sign,
painting a fresh imaginary line.
This time I’ll be the only one crossing it.
Across this border is the rest of my life,
all the other poems I’ll write,
all the other places I’ll go.
No more words about you,
no more places seen together.
The clouds will drift over the hills
and I’ll go with them.
/ / /
16 June 2022