Anything can unhappen—
Sunworn canyons could spill ridges,
fold flowers and highways and drown
trails going and home
or not, and my chosen road
seems to have gone missing—
This morning’s bluebells
may have seized their short summer while I walked?
Or the point-five-tenths trailmaker
stubbed a deep earthquake?
Did I glance away from the skyslope?
Fail to write home about the steep twilights
or summer suns that slip sideways
north of all evening?
Landscapes have lifted
aslant stucktime, chipped whole ranges
to seeds and bone shards—
Who can presume horizon?
Bicycle wheels may hazard
an edge and skip a mountain,
or curb for traveling treelines late and time
afoot, perhaps gulched—
Branch, bone, and fender can lose
high meadow. Will fireweed slip a silk step
to hikers? Will I
join travelers enwondered
sundeep, or young too far, who can shake free
of its old trail one
last way home from anywhere?