Issue Twenty-Two - Summer 2013

Arapahoe Pass

By Tim Grassley

Up the dust and indian paint brush afternoon
the sun rolled like a stone
between my fingertips.
Even with the columbines
and valleys sprouted high green,
I couldn’t take my eyes
off that regretful ground—

Jenny sang like water between sips.
I remember losing her
at the divide the first time
she stood in dusk
and cried at the words
I wanted back.

Not with penance.
Not with the same words
rearranged and built into the stone

I kept rolling through
my fingers to feel
the miles yet to walk before
she might be near me again.

Copyright Grassley 2013

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