HOW I LOST MY WAY, OR: AN ODE TO NOODLE PETE

i track murmured words
and lines of sight.
watch you gaze to
the horizon,
the speaker,
the cold air, is
what finally makes you blink.

there is often comfort in
unknowing.
in feeling around in the dark. let
fingers do the work.
squeeze biceps,
rub necks,
the cashmere, is
what finally makes them rest.

(they had caught two foals,
two wild young stallions which
kicked and reared and bit and
struggled frantically to free themselves as
Birk and Ronia tried to tie each of them to a tree.)

It's too much in the mornings, you know?
so many hasty steps to take and
rosemary bushes to count. I'll
stop to pick up feathers,
bluster at the grey skies,
your gullied smile, is
what keeps one foot in front of the other.

I need a deep breath because i realize
the awkward growing pains of those
stretches,
pauses

of

time

 manifesting as inches of
space, between us.