The west-facing rock sees no sun in winter and only a little in summer. Ice at noon, a few patches, first of the year. I want to see you naked and will no longer pretend - aspire? - otherwise. May we call it gain?
The power dynamic continues to evolve and yet stays the same, or seems to. He wrote. Slivers of quartz jutted from the cleared forest, like bones or teeth or diamonds. The better question might be what do you want?
Pissing in the dark, feeling the snow on my face, and other vague pleasures. Somewhere a dog barks. The terror inherent in always? I dream of you often and wake up happy, the familiar ache satisfied.
Yet zoos disturb me. The front yard maple closest to the driveway sheds a final leaf and so stands at last like a young woman in a time of war refusing any concession to grief. He didn't write that. I erased a line that would have come too close to you - evoking you anyway - and leave this one - evocative differently - in its place.
Your hair, the lines on your face. Can there be such a thing as partial honesty? Buttered muffins as the sun rises and we contemplate a long drive east. This is for you - a little light - and what informs it in deference to forever.
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