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.”