Grail

looking up the very tip
of alaska on the map--

there's enough miles to bring days
into focus and out
of where we've been

this,

I was told, was where
the northern lights
bore patterns into night
before dawn--

pomegranates
the underworld
love with its breath
held tight to keep where we've been

we'd drive through canada
and see a moose
they exist, it's true

north

(the compass knows)

all of us stand to point
at the map--

how many days would it take
if we cut across this territory
with a razor blade?

it doesn't serve us well
to remember

that the aurora borealis
is in a shot glass
on the kitchen table--
burned out.

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