Grand Marais, Minnesota

I fear all the things that we fear really happen, predicted with crystal ball eyes. New York City: we're already there, living beyond our meager means and coalescing poetry from air we pierce with heels too high for practicality. I'm writing to share what will happen next (not necessarily in the trick sequence of chronological order but next in a sense we cannot see):

We'll cast aspirations (material, love) out windows of 6th story walkups we walked too many times and we'll move to my cabin in old Grand Marais. We'll stop writing poetry and began to understand that poetry is a poor translation of a way of living, and we'll live this way, glowing in the garbled classical beamed cross airwaves that paints the dark of empty roads swirled white with snow; we'll learn to live like locals in two outfits or maximum three and know the trails like they are extensions of our veins, spread into acidic earth that births the pines. We'll wash dishes in the tavern and count tips while paying riddance to the rent we paid in Brooklyn. We'll swear we'll never move back East, back West, abroad-- we will.