Was it a brown sweater with holes? Was it one candle or two and were they - was it - scented? What poem did I write with all that empty space so privileged?
Was it a leap? Was it a fall? Was it a dance of some kind, a sad folk dance perhaps, one that invoked death, that drew forth the Goddess's ceramic mask?
Was it snowing or raining? Was it cold or so cold? In what phase was the moon?
Where was Dan in those early days? Had either of us yet read about the Salem witch trials? What was Albany but where my father went to return so tired?
Did I piss on the other side of a guard rail? Did I deliberately forget the rose under the dashboard? What was it about walking that we went so many miles so happy?
Did you become a teacher or an antique dealer or both? Do you ever think now of Lake Champlain? Asked about art, what do you hold back from your answer?
Is there such an event as the last time forever? I dream about you a dozen times a year, nearly always linked to the new moon's elide.