We measured from the brook going east in a Hollywood light. Deer scat underfoot and at last the torn greenery that indicates moose. Thin coffee but the view was uphill and we did. Following, I felt again the unexpected urge to talk, to unburden but didn't. Was it water or birds we heard beyond the ferns. How sad, litter.
Beer depresses me (late at night). The physical heart depresses me. Scythes along weed-whackers, compare-and-contrast art, that too. In the backroom we passed on more coffee but accepted psychic tips. "But that would mean foul play . . . " She said over yogurt and granola, "well, you do what you have to do so you can live with yourself."
Jeremiah clung to me falling asleep. Little arms, little breaths. At the end, Pound stopped speaking, which may not be contraindicated. Or say what about the child's grave. Dreamed that one, too, with stones carrying themselves towards it, in search of vowels and consonants. At dawn, I came to in the backyard thinking, who tends to the white flowers there.
Is it too late then to find you Ron? As you found me (in was it 1983) mute and yearning amidst the haunts and cattails of Worthington?