Five seventeen. ... Apparently this is what leaving looks like. ... Phone plugged in. Heat too high. One sleeve pushed up. One still down. Yesterday's mascara still doing whatever it's doing. ... Very cinematic. ... I thought there would be a feeling. Something in my chest recognizing the occasion. ... Nothing. ... Okay. That's fine. Probably better. Less distracting. ... From what? ... Jesus. ... The road is empty enough that I start counting things. Exits. Headlights. Minutes since I last thought about turning around. ... Seven. No. Six. ... Doesn't matter. Why am I counting? ... Stop. ... I check the mirror. Nothing behind me except road. ... Which is what I wanted. ... I think. ... Did I lock the door? Yes. I remember locking it. ... Do I? ... Yes. Stop. ... I don't know what I'm running from. ... That's dramatic. I'm not running. I'm driving. ... There is a difference. ... Probably. ... Maybe I'll feel different somewhere else. ... There. That's a reason. ... Not a good one. But a reason. ... My phone doesn't light up. ... Good. ... I check it. ... Still good. ... Don't. ... I turn the music up. Then down. Then off. ... Too quiet. ... Back on. ... Too much. ... Off. ... For fuck's sake. ... Apparently I have nothing to say to myself unless there's noise behind it. ... Interesting. ... No. Not interesting. Stop analyzing everything. ... Okay. ... I should stop saying okay. ... Okay. ... Fuck. ... The mirror again. ... Still road. ... Why do I keep doing that? ... No one's following me. No one's supposed to. ... I know. I know. ... How far do you have to go before going back becomes going somewhere? ... That sounds like something I would write down. ... I don't. ... I should probably eat something. ... Later. ... Did I bring— ... Yes. It's in the bag. ... Which bag? ... Doesn't matter. ... There are things I should probably be thinking about. People. Money. Home. What happens after. ... Nope. ... Instead my brain would apparently like to discuss the bag. ... Excellent. ... Maybe this was a bad idea. ... There. Finally. Something honest. ... I wait for panic. ... Nothing. ... That's worse. ... Shouldn't I be scared? Maybe I am. I don't feel scared. ... What do I feel? ... Don't. ... The mirror. ... Again. ... There was no big fight. No slammed door. No one standing in the driveway. ... Nothing dramatic enough to make leaving feel earned. ... I just couldn't stay there today. ... Maybe tomorrow either. ... Beyond that feels unnecessarily ambitious. ... The road keeps happening. ... So do I. ... Barely. ... That's dramatic too. ... Fine. ... The road keeps happening. I keep driving. ... Better. ... Can you please just be quiet? ... Nothing answers. ... Good. ... Then my brain starts again. ... Of course. ... Somewhere the sky has started changing. ... I don't notice until it shows up in the mirror. ... Pink. A little gold. ... Huh. ... I look ahead. Still dark. ... Behind me morning is happening without my permission. ... Of course it is. ... My phone— ... No. ... Don't. ... I make it almost a minute. ... Maybe two. ... I check. ... Nothing. ... Good. ... Maybe I don't need anyone to notice. ... Maybe that's the point. ... The thought feels good for approximately three seconds. ... Then I wonder if anyone noticed. ... There I am. ... I laugh. Just once. ... Maybe a little. ... For a second my head goes quiet. ... Oh. ... There. ... That's— ... Gone. ... The road starts getting lighter. ... I still don't know where I'm going. ... North. Obviously. ... That's not what I meant. ... I know. ... The mirror one more time. ... South is back there somewhere. ... So is everything else. ... I wait for that to mean something. ... It doesn't. ... Not yet. ... The sun comes up behind me.

Salt weather she said like I should know what that meant Mm... maybe I did White air wet mouth something silver moving through the trees I taste it before I see the water or maybe it tastes me The Pacific is wearing the sky wrong grey over grey and something darker breathing underneath Salt in the glass salt in the seams a little white ghost drying on my skin I put my tongue to my wrist Mm... there you are there you are there... The fog takes the rocks first then the horizon then whatever was supposed to be after that the water keeps happening somewhere I can't see Maybe the ocean doesn't end Maybe it just changes its name when no one's looking The wind comes through me cold fingers open doors places I forgot were open Mm... don't stop Something followed me back to the car I can't see it but there's salt where my shadow was salt weather salt... weather... I leave with more of it than I came with.

Fluorescent white in the middle of nowhere everything beyond it already night Mm... You were standing under seven your hands had forgotten their original colour every line in your face went somewhere I wondered how far Gasoline cold concrete white light caught in the cracks you looked at my car then north asked where I was going North I said it like it was a place You told me leave room in the car I asked for what You looked past me toward the road said whatever finds you Whatever finds me Mm... The light made everything pale your knuckles the concrete the edges of things you said rain was coming the sky said otherwise I looked down the numbers had stopped I don't know for how long when I looked up seven was empty No engine no goodbye just white light empty concrete and gasoline where you had been Something white moved near my foot a receipt face down I turned it over six printed at the top Mm... I must've remembered wrong leave room... whatever finds you... leave room... I put the receipt in the cup holder I don't know why maybe I wanted proof North I said like it was a place.

Dark but not the kind I know green-black silver something in between Light all that way down through branches through years and still some left for me I look up too far and then farther the tops go somewhere my eyes can't How old does something get before time stops asking Before roads before names before north was this way you were already ... I put my hand against the bark warm or maybe I was Nothing here hurries nothing here explains itself I feel very loud A thousand years another thousand I can't hold that many so I stop trying Something comes through the canopy light I think it touches everything but the ground For a moment I can't tell where I end Small smaller Oh. I thought that would feel like disappearing it doesn't I stayed until the light moved.

Mm... I haven't had a name for miles Salt on my mouth green in the glass the sky keeps opening then changing its mind I think I like it here I think... Somewhere behind me the morning disappeared I left the windows down let the rain come in everything smells like cedar and weather I keep looking for somewhere that's mine but every time I find it... I want to see what's next Silver road white sky ocean appearing between the trees then gone then there then gone again Mm... I could follow that forever Maybe I don't need to belong here Maybe I just need to be here Dusk tastes different this far north blue on my fingers salt in my hair I don't know what town this is Don't tell me Don't tell me not yet not yet.... There's still somewhere else.

Seventeen brass key brown door the carpet remembers every shoe except mine The lamp turns everything honey even the things that shouldn't be Someone burned a moon into the table years ago I put my glass inside it Hot water cheap soap my hair dripping down my back red light crosses my knee disappears comes back I let it This room has been seventeen longer than I've been anything 1:17 2:17 seventeen again okay There's a book in the drawer soft at the edges someone wrote sleep well Different ink underneath you too How many hands opened this looking for something else I find a pen Morning the clock blinks 12:00 Of course it does I put the book back close the drawer leave the key Seventeen behind me something in the room still mine I left it there.

Rain again Then yellow so fucking yellow I passed her yellow raincoat cigarette one hand in the air like she'd been expecting me Half a mile maybe less fuck She gets in dripping throws a canvas bag at her feet cracks the window mind if I smoke? She's already lighting it Apparently I don't Red nails chipped three rings on one hand none on the other She smells like rain cigarettes and something orange Five minutes nothing Then do you think fish know it's raining? What? Never mind Smoke through the window rain pushes it back she laughs like they do this all the time Second cigarette boots on my dashboard wet yellow everywhere I look at the cup holder the receipt I think about the man at seven maybe this is what he meant by leaving room in the car She tells me something about a motel in Eugene a dog named Tuesday why spoons are suspicious I don't ask She asks where I'm going North She looks at me like I've said something funny doesn't ask again Somewhere after the second cigarette before the fish she told me her name I know she did Twenty-something miles she points here Here? yeah there's nothing here exactly She takes her bag her cigarettes her yellow leaves three drops of rain on the seat In the mirror yellow smaller smaller gone Her name I reach for it nothing yellow that's all that stayed what the fuck was that?

Marlene's Diner chrome faded red one booth split open at the seam Mount Saint Helens somewhere through the rain missing part of herself and still taking up the whole sky Coffee before I ask pie under glass the clock a little behind nobody seems concerned Another sighting where? up past the old washout same one? who knows Nobody looks up so neither do I Outside something eight feet tall stands in the rain cedar teeth wooden eyes one hand up Does the Squatch have a name? Oh. That's Gary. Of course it's Gary The mountain threw her Sunday dress into the wind forty-something years later they're still finding pieces Huckleberry pie under glass warm when it gets to me one bite my eyes close shoulders do a little something Oh. Okay. Can you take one? I hand my phone to a stranger Closer closer get in there My arm around wet cedar his hand still waving green down his back I touch it Don't pick Gary's ass I wasn't— Everybody does Moss in a wooden ass crack Mount Saint Helens behind us perfect Later the picture looks different not him me I look like I was there Maybe I was.

Three a.m. northbound everybody with somewhere to be got there hours ago Black road white lines little towns going dark one at a time WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS I read it twice What exactly am I supposed to do with that Coffee's cold I drink it anyway window half an inch cold air just enough Headlights behind me Not close not far just there Ten miles maybe every curve they follow every straightaway same distance I turn the music down as if that will make me see better Another bend trees black hillside nothing No headlights Must've turned off somewhere WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS again I look up which seems unhelpful Three seventeen three eighteen three something The road keeps count when I don't Then between two mountains something pale not sunrise not yet North still good

Sunbreak right on time The morning keeps opening a little then closing coffee and a bookstore on Capitol Hill one book then three I put two back eventually Outside the clouds have moved without me blue where they were Dick's on Broadway hot paper fizz snapping on my tongue salt on everything including me I find an alley Jesus that's a lot of DNA stuck to the wall Why are humans so fucked? I love them anyway Wet brick voices flowers wrapped in paper then a fish flies overhead Nobody ducks Another one I could get used to this Sun again the whole city changes its mind Light on the water light in windows light where there wasn't five minutes ago Under the bridge the Troll one eye one car keeping watch like somebody has to I stand there looking at him looking at me Fair play. By afternoon the sky has holes in it blue ones light keeps falling through Somewhere between grey and gold the day gets perfect Not almost not for now perfect Maybe this is what rain is for so you'll notice when it stops Late afternoon book on the seat windows down no reason to hurry I stay until the shadows get long then north

Anacortes morning tastes like salt rain silvering the streets masts rise behind rooftops thin lines stitched into cloud At the end of every street water as if the town was built right up to the edge of a thought I wander coffee warming my hands past windows boats old brick nowhere I need to be The ferry waits white against grey its mouth open taking cars one by one Upstairs glass water glass water until I can't tell which one is holding the sky The engines hum beneath my feet deep soft almost inside me Land loosens islands drift through mist dark green then pale then nothing The world has fewer edges out here I open my book words float without meaning one page becomes twenty minutes or maybe none A gull hangs in the wind perfectly still while everything beneath it moves I understand the feeling The glass beside me darkens water behind it me inside it There is a girl in the window wearing my face wind in her hair yesterday beneath her eyes She looks peaceful I don't know when that happened I look down at my hands at the book at the little half-moon my coffee left on the page When I lift my eyes she is looking somewhere else ... Maybe I was too Outside the wake unravels behind us white thread pulled through blue I let the wind have my hair salt my lips cold my fingers For a while there is no road no north only this water carrying water sky carrying light me being carried Inside the windows have turned to mirrors The girl is there but softer her face laid over islands cloud moving through her I raise the cup she doesn't ... I blink and there it is of course glass light distance all the ordinary ways the world lies The ferry leans just enough my body answers a slow unthinking sway She moves with me almost I step closer my breath clouds the space between us For a moment I don't know which side I'm on Her eyes find mine or mine find hers and something in her face feels familiar not remembered familiar like a place I've never been but somehow miss I turn ... In the corner of my eye she stays ... No. Wind water tired eyes I turn back She is smiling small private like she knows something I haven't asked yet My fingers touch my mouth ... so am I The ferry horn opens the air deep and low the islands shift around us Land finds us eventually

Somewhere the rain fell beneath me I didn't notice when only cloud where ground should be and white caught in the dark snow still still still as if summer had forgotten something I opened the window cold put its hand inside I let it There are places that make a body feel borrowed this is one stone above stone blue beneath blue and me briefly between The road keeps losing itself I understand Some things only exist while you're moving A mountain appears then another behind it then another as if distance has been lying again I laugh but quietly It feels rude to be loud up here My ears fill with silence pressure release pressure release like the world breathing through me For a while I forget to want anything ... that's new Green returns slowly then everywhere cedar fern rain suspended between branches The light doesn't fall here it gets caught held broken into pieces I drive through what's left Something between the trees gold ... gone I look again nothing Of course ... Nope. Later water though I don't remember finding it grey beneath grey no seam between The other side exists because someone said it does lights appear disappear appear Maybe houses Maybe boats Maybe the sky misplacing itself I don't need to know That's new too All this time I thought north was somewhere I could reach a line a place something waiting at the end of a road But north keeps moving every time I do ... maybe that's the point No ... maybe there isn't one The fog takes the lights one by one until nothing is asking to be named I breathe and somewhere inside it inside me words surface old words different now true north ... strong ... and free I don't know which one I'm asking for ... maybe all of them

The other shore keeps appearing then losing itself inside the grey ... I know it's there I've seen it flat on maps coloured inside lines ... It looks nothing like that from here Behind me land becoming weather ... 'Mericuh I whisper to the disappearing shore The water doesn't care ... I giggle There should be a line something drawn across the water Here and there before and after ... But the waves keep crossing it without showing anything Maybe some lines only exist when you're standing still ... I'm not The little blue book rests against my thigh gold pressed into the cover my face caught inside serious still already a little old ... I look nothing like her I look exactly like her Both feel true The other shore closer now green coming through grey rooftops glass something white moving near the water ... A whole place going about its day without knowing I've never seen it before That does something to me small bright right under my ribs ... The world keeps having more world behind it They say this is true north ... but I wonder if that's me I used to think you had to know where you were going before you went ... Maybe you just go and somewhere becomes somewhere else Eventually arrows paint windows little instructions for crossing invisible things ... My knee starts bouncing I put my hand on it It ignores me The blue book suddenly feels very important ... So do I which is worse A window slides open warm eyes grey at the edges Morning. Morning. He looks at the little blue book then me then back at me ... I try not to look like I've driven half a continent with no fucking clue what I'm doing Purpose of your visit? ... Caught a bad case of wanderlust. One eyebrow just slightly up ... Serious case? I bite my lip Terminal. He smiles. Tourism will probably get us through the paperwork. ... I laugh too loud Sorry. His smile gets wider Already practicing the local dialect? ... I laugh again Okay. That one wasn't my fault. How long are you staying? ... I glance past him green wet pavement a road I don't know ... A few days. Maybe. No plans? Not good ones. ... His mouth does that thing people's mouths do when they're trying not to laugh Good way to travel. Then Anything to declare? ... And everything inside me opens Rain on glass salt on skin seventeen yellow a photograph trees too old to need me three in the morning grey turning gold my own eyes meeting mine blue beneath blue and somewhere a receipt getting softer at the edges ... All of it and none of it has a name for this Nothing. I say ... He waits half a beat Anything you're leaving behind? ... I look at him He smiles. Kidding. You're good. Oh. ... I giggle again Jesus. He hands the little blue book back Have a good trip. ... I look past him at somewhere I've never been I think I already am. Then I'm through ... That's all No change in gravity No new colour for blue No invisible choir ... Just more More road more rain more green more world ... Holy smokes. There is so much world I thought leaving would make my life smaller less to hold less to answer to ... Instead everything keeps opening The road the water the sky me ... especially me I hold the little blue book for another mile before I remember to put it down ... Gold against blue warm from my hand Nothing to declare ... and somehow everything to see.

Slow down. Take the scenic route. ... As if there were another kind. Blue ink on a receipt someone else's favourite road folded into my pocket. ... Where to? North. ... Honey. Do you know where you are? ... We are the north. ... Oh. I laugh. Right. ... We. The word arrives before the meaning. I let it. ... There is a particular way people make room here. A door held open long enough to become a philosophical problem. ... You need anything? said like an actual question. ... Love. Dear. Honey. Names from people who don't know mine. ... Little kindnesses with no hook. Strange. ... A voice through static knows something about sundown. I know something about leaving. The road pretends not to listen. ... You have to see this. Not you should. You have to see. ... As if beauty were urgent. ... I like that. ... Blue ink. Coffee rings. Prettier. Longer. Worth it. ... Apparently we have opinions about roads. ... We. Again. Very Victorian of us. ... I check the mirror. Just one of me. ... Rude. ... Something sweet three layers deep and entirely too confident about it. ... I save half for later. ... We both know that's a lie. ... There you are again. We. ... Maybe I have become plural. ... I am still beautifully alone. ... But solitude has stopped being an empty passenger seat. ... There are names here beneath the names I was given. ... Salish Sea. I say it and suddenly the water has people in it. Not bodies. Memory. ... The land doesn't change. The water doesn't either. ... I do. A little. ... I've followed maps like the names were always there. ... They weren't. ... The road is young. The border younger. The water doesn't seem impressed. ... Not mine. Never was. ... Still it lets me stand here. ... That's enough. ... Someone made this with their hands. Their name comes with it. I keep that too. ... Not a souvenir. A remembering. ... The artist has a name. The people have names. The water has names older than mine. ... I make room. ... On the seat old paper blue ink a photograph something carved and chocolate where chocolate should not be. ... Leave room in the car. ... Oh. ... I did. Look what happened. ... The car may be getting bigger. ... I decide not to investigate. ... I came north for the beautiful selfishness of answering only to myself. ... I still want that. ... That's the strange part. No one asks me to stay. No one asks for a piece of me. ... They just keep offering pieces of themselves. A road. A joke. A name. Something sweet. ... Maybe welcome isn't a door closing behind you. Maybe it's one left open. ... Oh. Well. That's uncomfortable. ... The radio talks to itself. Static. Guitar. A voice I almost know. ... Then kings somewhere in the wheat. ... No crowns. No kingdom. Just something golden moving through the speakers. ... I swear the mountains turn it up. ... No. Probably me. ... I don't know all the words. I know where they land. ... Mine. Such a lonely little word. ... It closes its fist around things. ... We doesn't. ... We leaves the door open. We has more weather in it. More road. More names. More room. ... Maybe that's why it keeps following me. ... We. The woman who left. The one in the glass. The face in the little blue book. ... No. Not quite. ... Some things aren't mine to gather into a word. ... Still the word keeps opening. ... Maybe we isn't who. ... Maybe it's the space between being alone and being unknown. ... I don't know. ... Good. ... The answer comes back in a voice that isn't here. ... I laugh. ... Prettier. Longer. Worth it. ... Yes. ... Somewhere I stopped trying to find the north. ... It keeps finding me anyway. ... We. ... The north. ... Not a flag. Not a claim. Not even an answer. ... Something more like being recognized by a place that has no idea who you are. ... Which shouldn't make sense. ... It does. ... I keep the window open. Just enough for the north to keep getting in.