another saturday morning
but i steal from you while
you're sleeping, turn back the covers,
bring coffee and scones and the news
of the morning--the bombs are falling
elsewhere, the innocent paying,
the taxes high and the paper, as we look
in horror, is bleeding on the quilt.
this is not the breakfast I wanted to give
you, dear. so let's dress. I've got your smokes
and the car is warming on the street.
you can fill a thermos while I wrap
some leftovers in plastic. We'll go.
There's a whole mountain waiting
off in another country--a straight
blood-heat run to the border,
the trees spiking the sky as we pass--
and once there, the destination
will change, what we flee from
and what we go toward will
intertwine. so, love,
are you ready?
can we go?