The world was already the world
and we were looking for ourselves.
Like something mispronounced
we kept repeating our names,
each syllable a slice of concrete
we tied to our feet for security.

In those days, there were stories,
an uncle ascending into cirrus,
an aunt who never surfaced again,
we dreamt of the long narrow road,
the precision of a snowflake falling,
the wrong turn that always got us there.

In the end we went out beyond the scrub,
to the free-to-air stations, thinking about
sophisticated things, branch stacking
and pork-barreling, the light in her smile
or the time in the middle of an interview
she reached out and touched his hand.