My new wife and I are separated 
by four hundred miles, several rivers, 
and uncountable ridges, rises, hills, 
mountains, all slowly declining 
in their broccoli-topped beauty. 
For three months and eleven days our marriage 
has been one of driving through 
the fog-filled valley of the Ohio and the lumbering 
Blue Ridge. I flipped my car one night, 
 
asleep at the wheel outside Ronceverte. 
Separation nearly killed me. Four more months 
and my growing familiarity with central 
West Virginia radio stations will come to an end. 
 
Distance is best measured in mountain 
peaks and bridges. I’ll see her again in forty-three 
barges and a few more inches of moon.