by Eric Greenwell


I remember
The first mountain I saw

When I drove west
I left everything

What was there before
Wasn’t there now

Except for my passenger
This was emptiness

Her gesture
And I followed her finger

Out the window
The consistency of fog

With fine edges
Like a white dress

What wasn’t there before
Was there now

Where trees ended

Where snow began

Where clouds landed

The radio looped
Through half-broke static

Like hundreds of brushes
Brushing paint around

What was there before
Was there now

As when a stranger says
Remember me


greenwellEric Greenwell grew up on the Mississippi River. Recipient of Writing in the Wild and Centrum Writers’ Conference fellowships, he is the 2016 PEN/Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Resident. His work has appeared in Willow SpringsLake Effect, Sugar Mule, and is forthcoming in Boston Review.