It likes the light. It likes a few pines
on a mass of eroded rock in summer.
You can't tell up there if rock and air
are the beginning or the end.
What would you do if you were me? she said.
If I were you-you, or if I were you-me?
If you were me-me.
If I were you-you, he said, I'd do exactly what you're doing.
—All it is sunlight on granite.
Pines casting shadows in the early sun.
Wind in the pines like the faint rocking
of a crucifix dangling
from a rearview mirror at a stopsign.
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