Here, politeness barred and so disarmed, celestially tired, bending a thought into you: a beautiful thing is never endangered with dishonesty. Two birch Adirondack chairs were born in the carpenter’s mind for this velvet yard in mine where we both mean it; fuck the police.
Louisiana suddenly—all ice—cracks below, and saying this, I invite you not to supervise but to see me and brightly here. I lie now and then to level with kindnesses. I don’t travel light.
Remember the bartender unleashing God’s flood? You saved me, and yes, we’ll wait. We’ll push our baser secrets to the other’s sopping breast. How old is this feeling—and thicker than four summers stacking and expectant? A biscuit in my lap now, a hundred churches leafing out like cards, pines marooned just yesterday in swamp, and still a scream flaps around trapped in the car. No one said withdrawal itself was absence.
Neighborhoods, when I’m not looking, dance their rearrangement. Frankly, this is your diminishing familiar. I’ll see you wherever I want. Later in a pond’s quick restoration, its ambivalence. In a handkerchiefed boy in Paris.
You asked what was the what of my old love’s forest of words? I think I told you a man only rakes his shame to keep it alive. Outside, pink crops, my fingerprint pressed into farm plots—just bodies somehow for regret. A screen rolls but soundlessly. I like you. And you’re right: hill country in the company of all these lipstick roses is a gift horse.