The Way Back

Each day the line opens
into voices complains
a secrecy imagined by hemispheres
between contingencies.
The last time our mountain
rose up between various histories,
a road and nod between
interested parties, the way
the sun held our attention
before dark, this little bit
more it gives is breathtaking.
No one remembers anymore
us there in the shadow,
nobody can recall our faces
relaxed and grown weary
is a place intended
for laughter, for glances.