Jasper does not return my calls nor visit. A new loneliness appears.
Old prayers. The Fall River orphanage my grandfather lived in. The past always asserting its vain and useless prerogative.
Newspaper clippings, grass clippings. We study the old apple tree, the merits of leaving it standing. Time passes.
Scavenging old glass on the river bank, going further than expected, yet coming up mostly empty-handed.
As we are mediated by our technology, we seem to become less attentive, almost as if giving up on lost sheep. Making love by the fire, half-drunk, quiet after, each in our own thoughts.
Or perhaps we are angels navigating Purgatory in search of souls whose penance is over, and this is our last task before our own penance begins.
I was confused for years about the "second hand" on watches and clocks because of how hard it is to fully get past one's first understanding.
Women who were helpful but not the way they thought, who took more than was just, and still from time to time assert themselves in the old context.
Grocery carts with broken wheels dumped on the side of the road at the town line.