And we entered the Valley of the Rogue.
And we slowed to a crawl.
The night’s envelope sealed us in.
After several hours, cars deep on the interstate,
we resigned ourselves: this first night
would be the gateway, the opening to a roguish place
where I would no longer have answers,
become unable to make plans, in other words:
less solid. Until months later I would
burst apart, or upward, as air bubbles from the mouth
of one flying in water toward sky.
But I was never near surface, not for years, and
you and your tiny lifeboat had already left, sun set,
forcing me to find my way out of the Valley of the
Rogue on my own.
_______________Strange gift, that.