Light rain obscuring the far hills but not Emily Dickinson. Heron flies away knowing the haiku poet intends to capture rather than liberate him.
It is a good morning to be lonely so I am lonely. Picking through discarded glasses and bottles at the dump.
I remember him sitting with a shotgun on his lap drinking beers from a little cooler at this feet, bane of rats and coyote. Let us hasten less quickly in the direction of death.
Somebody greased the higher rungs of the ladder. At night feeling one with the shepherds who invented monotheism out of starlight, loneliness and fear.
Whose theme is this? Watercolors of dragonflies on summer ponds, where I'd've gone if I were going in any direction.
My dead grandmother visited to plead the case for sanity and I struggled mightily to attend the lesson. Late - possibly too late - I realize what it means to live in love.
Remembering to be the solution you are looking for. What demon or ghost insisted that the guitars remain but go unplayed?
Listening to Dylan in northern Vermont, driving in circles for hours, pulling over to piss where the roads were most forested. The light you are, the fire.
Women who utter a word a certain way and thus change it for you forever. He was drunk but congenial, a puzzling - because far from the familiar - combination.
Glass turtles. The light wild, everywhere, blinding and hot, and yet still not sufficient unto the darkness of my heart.