The orchard keeps its own slow clock.
Apples let go one at a time,
as if the ground were asking politely.
I have been trying to learn that —
how to leave without announcing it.
Every town is a handful of lights
someone forgot to switch off.
I count them so I won't count you.
The man across the aisle sleeps
with his ticket in his hand, as if
the conductor might ask for proof of dreaming.
The kettle and I
are the only ones awake,
and only one of us is boiling.
I said the wrong thing
in the right voice.
That is the worst way to be wrong.
Left at the bakery that closed.
Straight past the house we didn't buy.
If you reach the river you've gone too far;
we never got that far.