Wayfarers

Knox The Hours

The hours of the day slip from us

easily, the way the tide or the wind

will carry something away.

Now sitting together by the fire, the daylight

crumbling behind us, our shadows

thin in a waltz of sepia glow. Looking at Sylvie

as much as I can, her serious eyebrows, trying to save

what I can of her—her perfect features, the warmth and kindness

of her spirit, her nimble mind—our conversation

feeling as inevitable as the smoke lifting

skyward before our faces.

If there’s one thing I know

by now, it’s how to leave and not look back

and yet I know as I dream

in my thin tent beside Sylvie’s van, I will

unlearn all that I know.