What we say without saying much. Fingers deep in you, kissing while you grind, slippery and hot. Bringing up ham steaks to fry for lunch. Frost melting on grass in need of mowing. In need of Vermont at a point when Vermont is no longer possible. Amen? Folding and refolding the quilt my aunt made many years ago when Foxboro still had farms. Pigs hanging in the freezer barely recognizable. Dreams your father had becoming dreams you have, and the nightmares that drove you both to distractions that were political in nature. Trolley tracks, train tracks, fox tracks. This ancestral inclination to booze. Song. Jacking off, silver streams of ejaculate glistening on my fingers, an altar of sorts, an offer.