To a black bear, the whole world is the back yard. We drank the last of the beer and had to do without insight for the rest of the afternoon. Bread baking, pizza dough rising. It was that kind of day you see.
The dogs nuzzled their mother's belly in my bedroom, I remember that pretty damn clearly. Over the years there have been a lot of dead snakes. My father owned a guitar and many guns but so far as I know, no baseball cards. Violets in memory exquisite as whiskey.
These three-sentence stanzas own a kind of reluctance, don't you think? A friend came by for muffins and tea and ended up staying for supper. We leavened everything with honey from bees who lived in hives out beyond the old barn. It was exactly as if obfuscation were a sort of vendetta, one that included an instruction manual.
You keep wearing that tight shirt in places you know we'll meet which must mean something. Hurry hurry hurry! We drove into Boston and came back (mostly) healed. I'll be your concertina if you'll be my Bob Dylan lyric circa 1979.
Your name has been uttered a thousand times in dark places where safety just barely outweighs reverence. Solitude is not without risk, a lesson that Henry David learned but failed to adequately explicate. Love with a couple of o's in it. Why does Jesus always visit when I'm drunk?