The road dead ends into this northern vista.
You can’t go further than the panorama’s
edge: its virgin snow, that ice-jam twisted
through the firs below whose fleece pajamas
gently let you know you’re far too pledged
to all the heat at home, the days you owe
and lease and nearly own. Atop this ledge the wind is stiff, and then it starts to blow.
But even if before you’ve stopped right here
and winced as each tomorrow déjà vued,
tonight you sense a yawn in the frontier,
which tempts you to the fence and slides you through.
Glance back and watch your boot prints disappear:
the long hand inches on, but not on you.