The Same Place

Often, a rolling hill is seen in the gleam
of an eye, of my eye.
And warm rooms, dinner parties
the road lining the walls a cobble stone.

An open window
with two panes of blue.
An open bottle of wine and book
laying a towel out on a concrete slab.

And these moments, these places are here
I do not need to go anywhere to find them.
The road I avoid when driving, preserved
and visible from my front window
alongside the glittering view of the city’s
diamond necklace and majesty of
towering stone green mountains.

I travel in a different direction
stepping out of the taxi cab I’ve never
been in.
And breathe in the dewy air
I can still taste it,
when I stop moving entirely
in the middle of the intersection
seven, six, five. I do a spin
and remember where I am and why
for the first time in twenty years.