My book hasn’t got any threes.
I haven’t got a Trinity to compare you to,
nothing holy to rub in around you,
no myrrh or gold or incense.

Rather, we are the three peaks on
Whitney’s east face,
and one of us is skypilot and another
granite and one a Phoebus Apollo.

We’re Walt’s America, and Djuna’s drinks, and all Andrea’s rasps,
and the three of us together are a happy patron at a dive cafe.

We come from a famine, a death camp,
and a war.
The broken bracken below the family tree that for us means survival.

We’re not a twin bed, we’re a
two-person tent
and three sleeping bags, four stuff sacks,
no pillows.

We’re two books, a Kindle, 1,491 pages
and 40 percent,
A dogear, a cat bookmark, and a dim screen.

We’re holy Trinities in our own way,
something escaped from books with pages
and scrolls with columns and running
in hiking clothes
into a lake, water in our hair and love bites on our shoulders.