Austin Allen James

Winter is a pale fire that glows

an endless blue. She is crooked

trees, abandoned restaurants, and a wisp

of 1870s air in this century, a thread

of lifetimes that no longer exist.

We’re spun of history close to campfires

and cotton that no longer smells

of smoke. I cannot say who or where

I was in a previous life, but I miss

the days we drank water and breathed

air. I treasure my affection

for the graveyard at the trail's end.