Of the Valleys

Some valleys you passed through replaced themselves in memory. Their mystique deepens like loam.

A glacier of forgetting moved into others. You never know: should mind’s climate change, these might be recalled.

You cannot remember entering even one valley without having felt changed: Maybe you sensed descent into routine,

or escape into meadowed ease— or knew involvement with anonymous mass humanity lay ahead, urban sea.

You entered that one valley—remember?— by train. A pleading wish to be from that valley seized you, a wish not be you.

As you gazed on and out, your forehead touched compartment glass. Someone stole your baggage, got off. You and your wish stayed on.

The thief became mayor of that valley’s town. Your suitcase withers in his attic. In valleys you variously hunted and gathered

education, work, sex, circuses, and solace. Some valleys merely hosted highways, trails, or rail beds. You've seen some from 30,000

feet. Many were only virtual valleys, smeared with concrete, stucco, steel, neon, smoke. A few seemed weirdly

cozy: The white steeple was too perfect. The waitress’s eyeballs were hopeless and hard, her smile stiff like wax.

Valleys have hollowed out a self’s terrain, invited settlers, sustained crops of possibilities in shadows of the peaks.