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i must have constructed at least thirty poems during that film.
rummaging through this wistful ether, saturated in stories,
filling in the vacant spaces of memories, like the first coat of paint
on a twice used canvas, the darker shades beneath,
confessing through the white paint,
the smell of turpentine harvested from living trees,
and mainly pines, battling for our attention.

reminiscing through the rearview,
    redwoods,
    an ocean,
    the badlands,
    a hot spring,  
    the strangers.

used to be wild—
    revelling in discomfort and adventure
    around campfires,
    in tents,
    dirt beneath finger nails,
    awestruck,
    relentless,
    fierce.  

how can we be expected
to give
any of this shape
with these clumsy tools?