My friend lives at the turn of this road. But the road is so long it never ends, never bends,
never once lets me meet a large tree, delightfully shadowed.
At the turn of which I think my friend lives. But this walk is so unplanned it’s never mapped,
never wrapped, never once a twig snapped from that tree that was supposed to be.
At the end of which I thought my friend lives. But this thought is so mine it’s never shared,
never declared, and never paired with another branch of that tree that was very me.
At the end of that me, there never was a tree, never a walk, never a road with an end.
Nor was there a friend.