A friend's voice in the darkness, coming from across the road, caused sudden and inexplicable sadness. In the forest, the thump of falling acorns, a shear of sunlight. Pressed in wet soil then, a print.
A way out, or in, as if stasis were not its own generative force. I accept certain directives, notably those relating to reading, while others I ignore. The old homestead was draped in Christmas lights, most of which blinkered in the dusk.
One way to think of you is as a cloud. Just how many books are you going to read they asked, which was the wrong question. Devotion left me cold.
Lines in the collected - and ever present thereafter - river stones reflect a desire for complex narrative. Or striation, a theory of. He wrote, as always.
The front path, the first kiss. Repetition is best when it sneaks up on you, when it catches you, unaware. The blue dish was incapable of holding so many dice.
Yet as the hours passed there was inescapably a calm behind which panic was about. Halfway there a rooster greeted us. Plastic masquerading as wicker.
But as always in the final sentences it comes down to what I want to say. Which is an Albany thing, a breaking kind of thing.