Over the Hills and Far Away
So a man and a woman stand on the crest of a hill, surrounded
by a hall of mirrors.
So a woman and a man stand on the crest of a hill, hounded
by the call of mirrors.
The man turns to his reflection and says, "I'm tired."
The woman turns to her reflection and says, "I’m tired, too."
And then the man and the woman turn away from reflection, toward
themselves, to say, "We’re tired," walk
back to their separate cars, drive
off into the land of what will be, away
from the ocean of never again, through
a wall and several glass houses
and a blue horse
that was galloping toward them until
their tires went kathunk-kathunk
over its abdomen, their cars
glinting in the heat
as they rolled down twin hillsides
separated by a dozen or so states
a few hundred lakes and countless pastures
where similarly blue horses roam.
At last the woman’s reflection turns toward the man’s and says, "Let's go home."
Finally the man’s reflection turns toward the woman’s and says, "But we are."
Each takes the other’s hand into their own and walks off,
backs toward the sun, never-minding what had become
of them, what had become undone.
Author Discusses Poems