I move along a highway through
leveled hills where I grew up.
Tree limbs occupied
this very space, affording
my vantage point on the world
at a height that pushed
the horizon away. I could
see the future, except this
road. This is not the space
I knew. The point I recall
remains where sun and earth
left it, outside a frame
of reference like an ancestor
who captured a photo
of long-forgotten faces
bearing familiar expressions.
My well-remembered place
is not a point at all, pointless
to trace back to, even accounting
for the motion of the stars.
Devon Marsh 