For I am tired. You see so many animals dead on the road, some of them picked at by glossy crows. The familiar conversations no longer work. Words, words and more words.
That which is not real can be made to seem real. The rose endlessly extended. An accent - perhaps Scottish - comes and goes. And wedding rings, of course.
And bells half a mile away like train whistles at dawn. We circle the hill over and over fantasizing ascent. Your note arrives somewhat like haiku about frogs. We all want to write and some of us do.
I know nothing. The hog of the forsaken visits me dreams, as does the dead dog. What did our fathers want for us? Long hallways in which the condemned walk, heads down, working out the terms of each next step.
That is not this. You will come to me in a half light while it snows, smelling of wine, with a small smile to stop my heart. Call it a preface, okay? And now the song begins, the old standby so beloved of the devil.
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