I found this poem by Aislinn Hunter on the blog of Helen McClory, a writer and Creative Futures resident at the Banff Centre in the Fall.
The Story As I See It
If I say, my arms cast out in this southern exposure, this is all we have for making: sudden grace or lack thereof, the skin that covers us in its thinness, a flush that starts high on the cheekbones, a span of warm hands, this is all of it, our tenacity, the stripped-down caravan we found in a field, the pillowcase we hung across the broken window, the floor coming up in the kitchen. And like a book already written we consider how to hold memory in the mouth. We hang our heels over the lowest slat of the gate and swing, looking as far down the road as we can. This is what I know of transience: that you will never see me this way again, that the light will touch the leaves of the alder tree this way only once, that we cast ourselves out of the past like human cannonballs because of the darkness behind us. But listen, there is music, and the steady thread of our breathing. Even here, in this place, miles from anywhere. - Aislinn Hunter