In Lijiang, the sign outside your hostel

glares: Ride alone, ride alone, ride

alone – it taunts you for the mileage

of your solitude, must be past

thousands, for you rode this plane

alone, this train alone, you’ll ride

this bus alone well into the summer night,

well into the next hamlet, town,

city, the next century, as the trees twitch

and the clouds wane and the tides

quiver and the galaxies tilt and the sun

spins us another lonely cycle, you’ll

wonder if this compass will ever change.

The sun doesn’t need more heat,

so why should you? The trees don’t need

to be close, so why should you?