Stars, scattered soap crystals. "Well, ain't you the gloomiest mister I ever did've met." As soon as I said there was no narrative I realized how little I had learned. What it was was, was a search for three and four syllable words, especially those with "L" sounds in them. Seriously.
Where the road bent north, a cloud of butterflies. Looming, a mountain (named for an affect) longed to be included in a certain letter. There were dried cranberry beans in an old canning jar, coffee grounds, and fresh peaches in wicker basket. But you never left Albany to join me. It was January, so cold that year in Burlington, and all night I walked with the idea of you while snowflakes melted against my neck.
Going west up Sam Hill Road has traditionally meant . . . ghosts. The greenery past the old McCarthy land is "bear country." Accordingly, we made a travois, a pile of smooth stones, and listened to the river while the sun fell beyond the far line of maples. It was a way to do that, to be "in" desire. And after, well, after. After, I read you Ron Atkinson poems and we discussed the peril inherent in allowing grief a voice.
There was, then, in the tall grass, an antique nail, identified by the shape of its non-pointy end. Pale wild Morning Glory the color of your skin. Is it "garden" or "garter?" he asked seriously, there in the forest. It was a bridge crumpling, I answered, and we are watched most carefully by an aged bruin dreaming of an enormous lake.