the arapahoe basin

the grey pillow of sky

tucked into the corner

of the mountain range

an oily smear of road

stretching into the future

where the skiing was

dreaming perfectly content

to live through this day where

bono's voice fills the room

the bucking delay of guitars

the sense of what the world

looked like twenty years ago

standing under the heating vent

not yet ready to show the world

our long, thick, shaved vaginal folds

still not finding what we were

looking for, dogs and drugs,

turquoise ribbed rivers

sparkling caves of blackness

filled with nose horses

riding off into the forever

(blood came out of her blurry face

bleeding the chin of divorce)

straight into the fists of detroit