In Denmark, there is a small town
Built into the mountain slope
Dotted with small homes and pines
And the pines drop pools of needles
That scatter the dooryards of the homes
And in a depression of earth
Outside your doorstep
On a deep buoyant bed
of long, soft feathery
Criss-crossed needles
We sat beside each other
So close
If we moved
We would touch
