there is something,
driving through the dissected plateau
uncracked and filled with glossy moss.
whether cat creek or the Blue Mountains,
whether Meeker Avenue to buy unsliced meat.
each bumper strangely kisses another
like unloved school kids unsure of
where to place their hands.
so we just ask The Catskills:
a range with no defiant ending.
there is something,
perhaps in Brooklyn they removed
every rock for every patch of dirt,
elected a mayor who elected steel cables
coated with zinc, going from body of
land mass to more bodies,
each bridge of steel
stretches across a timezone
to our heels.
there is something about the woods,
the insides of your skin
are like a cherry pit, sucked dry
but a silky slime.
we named every body of water
after every body part:
shoulder estuary, chin creek, wrist river.
there is something,
perhaps nothing ever falls in place.
tectonic plates collide to make mountains
and only to shake them down.
the most stunning spaces,
the sunrise, the ribbed landscape
of snow-capped fingers entwined
beneath once was our hips
there was something.