There does not seem to be a middle. Whose birthday is today? A gold dress, a matching bra.
What is this memory or am I just playing yet another trick on a self that can't let go.
Finger-painting. Balls rolling down hill. Leaning against a maple tree and reading aloud, unaware that a great moment of my life was unfolding and would not return again.
After horse chores, breakfast, and after breakfast getting broth started, and after getting broth started, coffee and writing in the hay loft.
The body refuses another breath but this is not the end. We all want something.
Fortune-tellers. A woman who made him coffee when he was young, not yet a man, and how he has never forgotten her and even now - decades and two countries later - still talks about her. Writing blocks as a form of not wanting to find out what the blocks to love are.
The blind horse staggering away from the fence. Blue light that hides in the snow.
I give up, I surrender, okay. Remember newspapers rattling over coffee, remember the door opening and closing, remember hearing Bob Dylan's Wedding Song for the first time, remember writing poems in notebooks.
Remember being happy. Cardinals rarely seen this high up in the hemlocks. Jacking off, getting it over with, moving on, om shanti.