Cross

She dreams of a month of yellows.
And I feel the vines of my past come loose.
A crease in the map, like a nerve in the tooth.
A hum like trains, bright like cellos.

I hear the guts of a truck through the pines
following poles of telephone lines.
I look at the blue fractal cutouts above.
I quicken my pace and tighten my gloves.

Keep calm it was only a nightmare,
A lifetime a light-year an hour ago.
Lay your head down and focus on snows
that soon will tuck in the years.