Fish fry in Benoit. Joyce brings a hundred dollars in… almost right to your mouth and you wonder if it’s just too easy

before you go, things left undone. loose ends, too many to tie so quickly.

we held the dream between our holding hands. we held our hands in the warmth of my coat pocket

Truck sounds like metal on metal– grinding coughing hard–

like the name says, we were there together. and it wasn’t long before we had built a fire and stargazing became staring down

it is March now. winter hangs on while spring looks on waiting.

sit in a tunnel fall at the northernmost point trip around the sun.

A stone in the lake old as water. Older than any question. Older than dirt and more stubborn. Round.

jump in the truck, and disappear in moments measured in rust, that flakes off in the friction of…

when you get started and you don’t… start digging slowly and softly, move things around. i turned over a rock

the truck is gone. the truck is scrap. (just that one half of the bumper, just that license plate from Big… everything else is gone.

the Aurora roared above us and in sweeping, arcing curves mimicked the path of the luge.

Fish fry in Benoit. Joyce brings a hundred dollars in cod and beer almost right to your mouth and you wonder if it’s

leeks bursting seedpods, equinox of our summer, moon becoming full.

tension stretching strings of muscle in the dirt warmth next to wildflowers, my feet stepping in prayers.