Out past the last town lies the land of nothing.
Thirty-million years ago this tectonic plate failed
to stretch itself thin enough to build any new ocean.
Only scars remain: normal faults and rock piles.
Valleys, filled to their throats with sediments,
enough space to contain all the ghosts and wild burros.
This sagebrush sky was home to Western Shoshone,
Goshute, and an immeasurable number of birds.
I thought this was the landscape of my dreams,
but my dreams aren’t big enough.
When has that ever stopped us? she asked,
her eyebrows raised in resolve.
After eighteen years of marriage, our scars
are only beginning to heal. I start the car we waited in,
and as her arm touches the window weather strip,
I push the gas pedal as far as it will go.
— MATTHEW MERSON
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