Colorado is opening like a lotus when we leave it

San Juans snake by, and we tug our little trailer behind,

Jeep huffing like an ancient steam engine.

Provo trains a magnifying glass on us,

Boise gathers clouds like cotton balls, but

July chases us into corners and under trees.

Oregon leaves teethmarks in the 19-foot

Flagstaff trailer we put our last dollar into, and

Peter damn near quits on us. But soon, we tumble into

Tillamook, sleep in a field next to a cheese factory.

Bend opens fat, feminine arms, embraces us. It’s

July 4th, and we’re here, and we exhale, and we find a

BLM spot, thinking ourselves explorers, and we hunt down a

7-11, buy Slurpees like we’re kids again, and we bring

Akiko to the river, sit and eat pizza on park grass, and we discover the

Peter and Margaret we had forgotten, and we watch as

America discovers the self she forgets about, too, until one day in

July that explodes into color and sizzles into sweet, cool breath