Chaparallel

If the concrete were to care
whom of my choice and challis
follows
up the gravel grade as steep
as my concern for anything,
than I would be elated to find you
standing there.

I’ve always wondered if they
ravel the same thoughts
among their brains;
tip-toed in the same context and
challenge to understand what
just exactly
they had in mind when walking up the hill.

They must think some of the same things:
they must come to realize the cacti plunging
it’s Suessian limbs, and yellow needles out
toward their faces.
They must have smelled the residue of oil
from the cars,
as it had been boiled from sunlight’s graveyard shift
across
the earth.
They must have come to the same conclusion
about my hands, as I of theirs.

Time and travel, two issues making
time together short apart from
where we are when we’re at home.
I’ve fled into the valley only once -
and I don’t say much
concerning what and whom I found
throughout the twist of concrete,
stucco, and thorned crowbars
rusted red.