We are older than history.
Letters one regrets sending, and yet.
In early summer I dream of snow, three nights running, and have the strange sense I will never with these eyes see snow again.
Sex in middle age, encased in narrative flows that intensify the relevance of orgasm but still leave us groping for something solid.
Outdoor blowjobs after all this still.
Sunlight in distended squares slides across honey-colored floorboards then up the far wall. There are many sweetnesses, including these.
The pleasure inherent in being told what to do.
Our true body is networked. Trauma is networked.
Disaster blankets. Forget-me-not seeds.
What do you see in the mirror in the morning?
Disallowed mysteries. Left turns onto roads named after somebody's grandfather. Twenty year old draft conservation easements. Yellowjackets.
We get somewhere once we reach the bridge yet keep going.
It never makes sense and yet we keep going.