"Set Up Signposts."
From the start, we look for signs, symbols
of the place we are headed.
Bent trees, we call trail, guide ourselves
through their bow legs, bent shafts.
Set signposts.
A potted geranium at forever bedside to guide me to him.
Crushed leaves that smell of tobacco-scented fingertips.
His hands so often over my mouth before the open summer window,
above the door of an all-night diner.
We glance at the road we have come to remind ourselves
of our position, direction.