It was a hazy day, kind of a middle-of-summer day, when the heat rises soft and full and drenches everything in a mallow light. I always feel as if I am about to set off for the Civil War. Those fields, those graves, those perfect-to-the-point-of-weeping narratives. Can you say yes?
Let's focus on the liver now, shall we? Where the trail broke four ways he stopped, called the dog back and found himself "lost in thought." As soon as you feel clever, go another way. Just below the stone wall a fox studied us, his eyes as dark as a crow's wing in March.
The story you don't write doesn't remain unwritten. The air is full of dander, traveling butterflies, good ideas. One way to Heaven involves studying deer tracks. You get to where there's nowhere else to go and then you can say you're there.
Just because there's nobody and no thing to save doesn't mean you should walk around slaughtering dolphins. John Denver on the hi fi, those long-stem wine glasses full of pinot grigio. Fell asleep on the couch, my hand on your hair, your head near my shoulder and the dog watching us sadly from the floor. Tucked a shout into an envelope and mailed it to my dead uncle.
Hefting swords as the light fell, dreaming of the perfect peach. What did they think, facing the murder hole? You come up for air and the air is delicious, like nectar, like the tender first kiss ever. And I think of you from time to time and it always makes me happy.