The one who was ready
to lead me home is now stuck
somewhere half-way along the way.
By night she travels
the lonesome roads
by day she rests
covering her eyes with her palms.
In the dark pine tree forest
she’s eating pinecones and drinking snow
from my notebooks.
Still not knowing my name.
She will find it out
the day before
she finds me
as usual.
Then she will point her finger at me
for the Angel of Death
whose application to serve his time
somewhere away from Kras
remained lost
among many other
poems about youth.