Friday pours from the Northern sky,
Friday,
easy and not so fast
unpacked like the first boxes
you’ve moved;

the rest is just a gold mine,
bury me standing
and don’t ask where we’ve been.

Storm that caresses a dry land,
ravaging the body
in light and sound,

break the bread and head down
to Decauter, rape the land of milk
and honey, don’t forget to write.

Tear down the walls and dance in the rubble,
let your feet carve the ground
into white lines leading nowhere,
take their length as a reason
to keep following

a test of will. Strength and endurance,
staying between the shoulder and the traffic
coming on, semi’s and mothers
flying to a home

they can almost forget,
skirting the edge
of a pit of quicksand

or taking the first steps down a dirt road,
fading memories that are informed
by the sun at dusk

Would the sunlight reveal the same webs
and fog if I walked back?
Would I still see them or need to feel the warmth?