There is the vascular restriction of life
as it stands
the heartache of waving goodbye to yourself
putting yourself on the bus
the tail lights red and sad
as you pull away.
And letting go in this moment
walking home from the bus stop
into your home, where everything is
strange again, as you feared it would be
the last time you did this.
There was one life in Baltimore,
red brick houses, driving
your daughters to ice skating
there was money gone to seed
And another in Spain,
a short bus ride from Huelva,
near the ocean and the Portuguese border,
where you lay in the sun to read
where you wandered a country lane in the dark
and were startled by the visage of a
white horse, smelling the air,
crouching silently, breathless,
that it would never leave.
And this one—what is it?
What is this picture of you?
alone, padding through the snowfall,
near the hospital, breathing fog
into the air.