befuddled ovenbird I’ll be camping in the desert for two weeks. You’re going somewhere too, but you won’t tell me where. It’s because there’s no word for what we are to each other. If we are small enough to slip through the gaps in the chain link fence of language then you don’t have to tell me where you’ll be. Crying doesn’t persuade you. You stand firm, your feet sinking into the orange shag rug. Your father looks at me and shrugs. I have to be in the mall parking lot at 2:00 to catch a ride to camp. I get there in plenty of time only to realize I’ve forgotten my sleeping bag and need to run home. Large maples are encroaching on the roadway. I have to dodge their fuzzy trunks, weave my way through the emerging forest. The pothole near my house has grown into a sinkhole. A makeshift dirt road lets cars skirt its crumbling edges, but it’s going to eat everything, I’m sure of it. In the apartment strewn with crocheted lap throws I rummage through my closet for a sweater. You’re gone and I have no way to find you. My new hiking shoes are growing moss and the rubber is peeling off the right toe. I forgot my pillow and everyone in the parking lot is laughing at me while the borders between the concrete and the understory blur beyond distinction. There’s something I need to tell you, but I’ve already forgotten what it is. 260910 what's it to you? who go blather from