I press the counter and watch zero slide
down to displace the digits.
So I begin to measure the road
that cannot lead me anywhere
you stand, white-whiskered in the frost,
well-met, my mountain-king.

The least act is hard.
The key is rough; the frozen door
needs yanking. The starter turns
over and over, gasping.
I need oil; a gasket leaks
inward; no way to fill it up;

but with a grab of gear, the car
jumps like a dog that dreams a bone
in its dead master’s hand
and the engine kicks ahead
like your chest shuddering
its last three days.

After an hour, the vents
breathe out a ghost of heat.
The backlit mountains lean
towards me. I roll down the foggy glass.
A light below the world’s edge
wants to rise. Almost I hear

the gravel of your voice
as the slow wheels crack ice.
A junco’s muffled check
prickles the air; chinkapin oaks
saw limb on limb as if a throng
of sleepers, groaning, stand.

I coast a hollow, strain to top a rise
threaded maybe with trails
where you would find me heal-all rattling
and pearly everlasting edged in ice.
The light wells up and sinks,
once, twenty times.

In a few miles, if the car goes on
in first, if the light holds out
and I find a trailhead, I may park.
Then on a vacant shoulder, in the break
of morning, I may start
over on foot, alone,

wearing your outsize coat,
your compass, and a pack of stones,
this weight of love I won’t set down.
One step, balance, transfer the weight
forward another step.
Not toward you, not away.

The sky has the pink gloss of a fresh scar.