Patterns of a mountain side were looking like fabric of one big kite that you flew higher than mine.
It was the best day of your life.
Our little white car was swimming through vallies
and you buried yourself there.
I didn't mind.
I thought I needed a map for your eyes.
You couldn't cut through the fog, not even with your black pocket knife.
So kept driving through the solid black and through the solid white.
Compass in your hand, atlas in mine.