"This is the last poem that will
ever fashion it’s backbone from
the hollow echo of your name.
What is gone is dead. Ok.
I can’t keep aching for you.
Last week I was in Montana.
The night sky is so big there it
swallows you. There was a time
I would have looked up at the stars
and thanked you for hanging them.
Enough. Enough of that now.
All day long I’ve been thinking
I’m safer alone."
"Getting lost was not a matter of geography so much as identity, a passionate desire, even an urgent need, to become no one and anyone, to shake off the shackles that remind you who you are, who others think you are."