Uncanny,

by Eileen Hennessy

the sights and sounds of us,
gorgeous and sexy.

The rightness of us,
moving fast and forward.

Our voices beam out,
herd-thunder above our clattering

thoughts, each named for the gulch
where it gets stuck.

There is “your,” there is “my,”
there is no “our.” No recording

of the crow-calls that harry us
back to every stuck-place,

to the signs that read,
“This is your life.”