Monday, July 5, 2010
Forest Service Road on 6 didn’t come up.
You and I quiet, grown up together,
no questions to ask each other. We turned
on what we thought might work, a brown dirt wick
to the trees. I thought of the Cascade Trail,
the swamp then the hump, ratty wildflowers,
the sea and stirred cirrus, inside an egg.
I swore then I could conjure the hoarse smell
of cinnamon. Our car slopping through mud,
potholes, mizzle. We were not there, or in
Spook Cave or Blue Vista. Just then, a man
and woman fishing. You took off your cap.
“Where are we?” you asked. “Is this the Forest
Service Road off 6?” They turned with their lures
half tied, eyes full of fog, no, with fish-eyes.