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Over the Hills and Far Away

Cati Porter

So a man and a woman stand on the crest of a hill, surrounded
         by a hall of mirrors.
So a woman and a man stand on the crest of a hill, hounded
         by the call of mirrors.

The man turns to his reflection and says, "I'm tired."
The woman turns to her reflection and says, "I’m tired, too."

And then the man and the woman turn away from reflection, toward
         themselves, to say, "We’re tired," walk
         back to their separate cars, drive
         off into the land of what will be, away
         from the ocean of never again, through
         a wall and several glass houses
         and a blue horse
         that was galloping toward them until
         their tires went kathunk-kathunk
         over its abdomen, their cars
         glinting in the heat
         as they rolled down twin hillsides
         separated by a dozen or so states
         a few hundred lakes and countless pastures
         where similarly blue horses roam.

At last the woman’s reflection turns toward the man’s and says, "Let's go home."
Finally the man’s reflection turns toward the woman’s and says, "But we are."
Each takes the other’s hand into their own and walks off,
         backs toward the sun, never-minding what had become
         of them, what had become undone.

Cati Porter

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