here is where i'm from: the distance from the horizon, that field outside desire. at recess i'd play games where you'd kick a tennis ball, or check your stocks, or stand on the hill and feel the wind rushing in behind you. has it all returned to earth? am i simply taller? i have been to that horizon, across that ocean; many miles away. i have been to that humid sound outside your window: leaves and children passing during the day; that frigid morning, the sound of the kitchen in dark. turn off the radio, crunch of snow; blasting the car with open mountain orange air; laying against the sharp angle of your back, imagining. grass finds its way between my toes. now let's both remember that apple: the one that set me free that time, the one we took for a ride; the gift. — again and again: let's begin again and again.