Midnight with Infinite Vistas
Where the trees thin for spirit-lights and roots pull from soil, we waded through trails we made as we went, felt night-moss haunted. We cupped swamp water into buckets, scooped up the black milk that kept us jarred as a fire-fly lamp, glowing cold. We saw a woman charting and cutting stars pour fire into the forest, and she told us to stop looking: We have none of each other, and all of each other at once. O pathfinder with her white canoe, nothing stops moving here. She says, this water holds us good—doesn’t it? How everything rots so quickly, mouth dead as a lightning bug, only a flicker: turn us back. We plan the night we met, again. Story of lost and found. Story of a lady ghost. We’re back to the boats: small terrors ahead shaped like scarves piled. Empty and blistered, oars close. The hull abides only its shadow, deepening our faces, looking for us and finding only us. In the forest: a fox trailing beneath ferns—trails unmarked, without us yet. A night where we haven’t met.