There is something I have been meaning
to tell you (myself)
that is best left said in silhouettes of sentences
more the shadow of the thing
than its substance
blurred lines I’m trying to impart
like squinting because you lost your glasses
or never had them
I’m losing the train of thought
for another plane
that leads to Juneau
oh sweet Juneau
you whispered enough from the window
to make it clear
that yours is a hidden city
across ridged tree-lines and humpbacked isles
passing terra and oceania
on a sunny day they are one and the same
and suddenly beneath me
man, carved into the island bone like
remoras clinging to rays
why must most beautiful things
be hidden?
