I’m sorry to report my self-help book has
veered sharply church-ward & brother, reading it,

you would die. In pixelated Novigrad, I’ve
slain the griffin using your favorite silver sword.

& halfway through your Tao Teh Ching, I’ve found
your Insta bio, dog-earing the page. When I follow you

down the waterfall, will I find you waiting? Will the world
worry over our lost inside jokes, or will the winds abate?

I’d like to speak on nothing but know
the snowfield’s best unstepped. How tender can

fresh flesh wounds be, lifted off the blacktop? How freely
can one flee down backroads if the home has fallen dark?

I have not stopped leaving the houselight on all night,
scrawling little songs like bootprints in the snow.