I thought if I recited the stories again, followed our old flight to Laramie,
I’d find the door you stand behind, and, tonight, you’d let me in, Laramie.
I remember spring snows throwing their white rags across the prairie,
how we had to shield our eyes from all the bright light in Laramie.
Since then, I’ve walked past our old apartments, the abandoned depot, but still
I couldn’t find her footsteps in snow leading back to her spite in Laramie.
At first we laughed through all our pasts’ black eyes and scars,
and drunk on the Buckhorn’s barstools we found delight in Laramie.
I used to think if the Big Sky showed a path, a road, from Star A
to Star B, I might then be able to hitchhike back to her in Laramie.
I’ve found the Oregon Trail, the Transatlantic Railroad, found I-80,
and all of their cuts through the high plains met right here in Laramie.
Despite our carved names in wood at the Buckhorn, despite the bullet hole
above the bar, none of these lead to our old plight here in Laramie.
Smoking in the snow she said, we must remember flight has two meanings.
How long before she realized it might have more in Laramie?
Even with all the names and landmarks, even with all your searching,
Lindsay, you will never find the sight of her ghost here, again, in Laramie.