Boulder

We should have ended in Boulder, Colorado.
A place named Boulder sounds precisely bound
and self-contained. There trees would bleed no shadows
on the ground. A site so definitely nouned

would season quickly: leaves would snap in fall,
shear off, and drop like rocks; no subtle drift
to catch like a rotted pear in my throat and call
up dreams of flawless summers. Ends would be swift

and kind. In Boulder, time would hold no grey
and lonely voids for memory to fill
with breath; no twilights, no false dawns would stay
the final blow. Endings would strike once. And kill.

But they don’t. Each parting has a thousand strands,
Each over isn’t, each shattered boulder, sand.

-Kitty Yanson