The trail was given to mushrooms, patches of trembling sunlight, prints of deer walking one behind the other. In the "holler" we found a slight depression that reminded us of a grave. Nearby were barrel staves. You who dream of a noose, you know all about falling. That's how it is in the world we agreed would do the trick.
Or what? Wood arranged to provide a crossing rotted and you could see beneath the trickling river. Another dream of winter, another pilgrim smiling at his blue fingers wrapped around a leather bible. We fell for the angel, the light that played off spider webs suspended on the breeze. This sentence is ceramic, dulcet.
I dreamed of you and it was a dream made rich with regret. He wrote in that last letter that love was like truth, you can't put it up for a vote. Snow fall, fading tracks. There was even a camera! We are not who we were in those days, a fact which comes entirely without comfort.
The deer watched us cross the ridge, alert to the ringing of our voices. For many years I consoled myself that we would meet again but I have doubts about it now. Prayer is the last bulwark against death, which comes on without regard. Take this and call it a poem, won't you? There is no distance that can satisfy the lonely once the gates of Heaven swing shut behind them with a clang.