Into the Wild

When I am cold,

I like to imagine Christopher McCandless

hitchhiking to Alaska

in a car reeking

of Hawaiian music.

Perhaps while he listened,

he stared right out the windshield

and understood the stars

as a bunch of frozen peas:

scattered and the same

whether frozen or not.

I belong in the winter

he would say

I belong with white rabbits and I

deserve to have the sun kiss me

cruelly with light.

Soon with every breath I take

I will feel the wind chill my lungs.

And for a second,

I believe in it.

I believe in snowflakes and

icicles and

short days and

lonely nights.

But suddenly I remember--

Alexander Supertramp died

facedown

with his lips frozen to the

floorboards of an abandoned bus.