Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles

In Lijiang, the sign outside your hostel

        glares: Ride alone, ride alone, ride

alone – it taunts you for the mileage

        of your solitude, must be past

thousands, for you rode this plane

        alone, this train alone, you’ll ride

this bus alone well into the summer night,

       well into the next hamlet, town,

city, the next century, as the trees twitch

        and the clouds wane and the tides

quiver and the galaxies tilt and the sun

        spins us another lonely cycle, you’ll

wonder if this compass will ever change.

        The sun doesn’t need more heat,

so why should you? The trees don’t need

        to be close, so why should you?