North of Superior, November,
bad weather behind, more
coming in from the west, the car windows furred
with salt, the genius of his fingers
bright, incongruous, cresting a ridge
and without warning the sky
has been swept clear: the shaved face 
of the granite, the unleafed aspens
gleaming in the low heraldic light, the friend
I had once who hoped he might die
listening to this music, the way
love finds us in our bodies
even when we’re lost. I’ve known very little,
but what I have known
feels like this: compassion without mercy,
the distances still distances
but effortless, as though for just a moment
I’d stepped into my real life, the one
that’s always here, right here,
but outside history: joy
precise and nameless as that river
scattering itself among
the frost and rocks.