A single gossamer thread strung between fence posts, rising and falling in early September breezes. A rattling sound when the car backs up. A settling, then. A sifting.
His handwriting was thin and hard to read, yet he wrote the letters, didn't he. The sun set just so in proportion to floating clouds, making them bright enough to barely see.
The luminescent Octopus whose soul is my soul, whose healing is my healing, whose dream is my dream.
Tossing dead mice into overgrown forsythia bushes.
Buckets of chicken guts steaming at mid-morning.
We are all capitalists.
Yet high on the hill, a few maples begin turning, the fierce red of their leaves like a hand-sewn streamer made of cardinal feathers. A sound the wind makes as if dying.
His funeral brought forth neither apologies nor explanations, and I was lost for most of it, exhausted and sad and confused about the emptiness that death had wrought.
Male monkey politics. Fallen tree limbs. Rotary phones and trying to hide while talking on them. Burnt ferns at summer's end.
And silence, and silences. The Man without Shoes is also the man with a rosary in his pocket, yet he mentions this a lot less, doesn't he.
Offers to dance, meet in strange towns, drive another loop, et cetera.