Where the Land Divides

Getting more difficult to cope, ain’t it?
In actuality, the wisps we were
disperse flagrantly, without apology,
in accordance with some internal mechanism
that wears incomprehensibility on its sleeve.
We leave our scent where the land divides.
Somehow, this translates as “tainted.”
Unfairly sainted, wearing paper bags over our faces,
the path beneath growing denser.
The tension tangles ’round our limbs so tastefully.
Matter-of-factly bound to the advance.
Sweat shimmies through the porous.
And even though we have no voice,
our chorus cleaves to the harried air,
its flows and counter-flows, and carries on
to every wearied corner of the map.

-r. miller

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