Fugitive
by Walt Hunter

Today the wind will let you know it’s possible
to come back to the vineyard where you first
were drunk. The needles lapping in the wake
of larches gird your steps. These helicopters
look for prisoners. And when it snows,

it’s nice to take long walks around the village.
In the bakehouse, once a month, you get
the bread you need. November, fiddled with
and passing out of tune, is still in color.
Noone is your prisoner, your passport says.

Today the sky is poor white petal where
the helicopters left to look for bread. You sign
for clemency. It snows. A woman holds you
to the wall. You’re taking walks and coming home
to where November left its prisoners in earth.

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