You couldn’t see anything
from that hill but still we made
our climb up its far side
to know it for ourselves.
Her with all the pictures
of the world tucked in her backpack
in a notebook that only she could see.
Then there was me with nothing,
but the smoke that I would exhale
through my nose.
Trees that became hills that became sky
and questions about how that turned to
arguments about why. My hand
on her back and hers on my thigh.
We didn’t leave until the moon
began sharpening its knife
on its knuckles that never would bleed.
She was my one and only need,
and we walked home together
that night unafraid of the dark.
Viewless Hill
Teleporting Typewriter 