You do the right thing until you stop and then what you did becomes no longer the right thing.
"Ideas leave not their source."
Mowing under the hemlocks at 10 a.m.
Storms pass in the distance, leaving our valley dry. Fireflies, foreplay.
The peacock opens its fan.
Who is it about?
We walked slowly, a few feet apart, gazing at pottery that was too expensive for us to buy, not talking, lost in sadnesses that we were learning would be with us forever.
Long drives. Losses.
There is nothing it is like to be a chair. Ornaments.
Your lips parting, indicative of things to come.
It gets complicated. Lying about the nature of our concern to those who are essentially lying by asking about our concerns. The salesman, the coordinator.
Your footsteps on the stairs and later the bed sighing as you lay down next to me. Rain falling, thunder rumbling.
Anyway, you can't run away in a maze.