I see some girl,
somewhere, asking
a boy,
“Where do we go,
before the sky
starts to spill—
where do we go?”

And I find it sad,
he’ll say:
‘I don’t know,
I don’t know,
I don’t know…’
like it’s all he’s got left—

'It’s been a long year.
April Page, you look kinda dog-eared,
while the rest of time
blurs in the trees,
their branches moaning with the seasons,
almost like they’re trying to
Speak. '

Where do they go, they go,
with no...