Here is a deep hunger to marshal thoughts
into words into neat stanzas. I want to host
my words in cottages, or hostels scattered
across the white.

Albergue is Spanish
for a house you find, dusted and sweating,
at 2pm or 3pm–earlier if you left
the last one before dawn, crossed
the Meseta in the morning cool, and passed
today’s spring flowers, distant peaks
and open sky, to reach a €10 bed
and a new stranger on the other bunk.

May my words find a brief home
like that, trekking over page’s plateau
between these built stanzas.

And a chance to kick off dust-white boots,
eye up the wandering metaphor sprawled
on the next bed, and ask: How far are you
going, then? And what are you running from?