SUSAN WISMER

On Distance

A preference for walking. Earth under feet. Begin
with a bend toward ground: double-tied shoelaces, 
thick socks, strong flexible soles. Walking stick.

Sun’s passage. On any map, the shortest
distance from here to there 
appears as a straight line. For any

long journey, that’s never the case: cliff edges
floods, talus and till—geology, history:
borders and fences, signs reading Keep Out.

To walk day after day is to live well in the curve 
and drift of the planet, its round body’s slow 
tilt to the flight of far stars.
 
Fossils at rest under footpaths; gunpowder turned
back to grapevines. I have settled on walking, long
as it takes to travel from here to there.