We must have started to wonder why
our hands are tied like ribbons
on a fancy wedding present
by the time invisible arrows caught my skin
and yours, tugging us into directions
going anywhere but closer. We cut
the laces and turn them away and around
into corners, streets, two-way highways
where each has someone driving the car
lost in a map of the mess we’ve made.
Every destination getting unwrapped
to be another place in the graph
enclosed by the same lines where you and I
trace. But there and here were the same,
our compasses pointing toward our guilts.
October 18, 2010