A Geography Beyond Never

But what does two take? Supine, his shadow on the bedroom wall resembled a walrus, a wrench. Grackles and robins picked through the garden at dusk. Always hard to picture but stones do float through soil. While a long day gets longer.

Do you remember your first train ride? Buying the Homer Price books in a used bookshop in Albany? There was a sense later, over coffee in a nearly empty cafe, that we were "out of time." Not not having any but like falling through veils, a buffeting. It felt always like a moment with no before or after and so how could it last.

The dogs pleaded, the ants went about their business. Old manuals, faint notes handwritten on the back. The doctors apologized but what could they say really. In the parking lot, the priest stopped to fortify himself not with prayer but a drink. There was the time that he brought a sheep into church for the Christmas pageant and it broke loose and knocked over the baptismal font.

Okay fine there were stars wheeling through the heavens. At forty you start to long for that level of belief again. The afterlife, a geography beyond never again. How can the last time I saw you be the last time etc. And what else can be subsumed by etc.