I drove over and over up the road to the gap
In the national park: grass and a few
Small buildings comprising an estate
Preexisting the surrounding destination.
Any hole in a place is a wrinkle in time.
I fantasized buying it. It was for sale,
Although even in better days I could never
Have afforded such an extensive mirage.
Every time I checked the realty sign,
Body nodded in mute amazement that this
Impossible opportunity still continued
And had not yet been swallowed by events
As I soon expected myself consumed.
I promised to use any miracle to move life
Into that gap, stretch it out, and call it
A hermitage. Finally, I felt I had to promise
To do no such thing. Miracles are for leaving,
Not for returning to dig, badger, deeper in.
Oh, but all those melting towers and shelves
Of red sandstone spires, jagged mountains,
The tawny, veldt-like expansive of the grass
In late summer, the copse of Gambel oaks
Hiding one tiny cabin, the thick, undisturbed
Snow, barely tracked even by deer weeks
After each winter storm, the unbearable
Blue, the presumable solitude. I could die
To live out my mean lifespan through those
Windows showing only cloud lengths of time
Outside, as I was, and without. I could die.
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