In October I walk slowly. The dog stops often and peers ahead. We listen to leaves falling, acorns bouncing off emerging quartz. One goes without love a long time and when faced with it is confused.
Invisible breezes. One moves slower along the rafters of language to find certain words. J. brought me a whiskey which I sipped at midnight, silver clouds sailing back and forth below the stars. Sleep does not come, not at all.
And yet a few hours later he stumbles outside and wanders a few miles of old pasture. There are names I will yet utter. A broken heart appeases nobody because liabilities never do. If only we could turn back the clock.
If only we turn darn our tattered socks. Between spruce branches the yellow leaves of the birch tree. Between desire and what names desire a little harmonious river. She slipped beneath the blankets quickly and we did not speak for there was nothing in that moment to say.
The motel stares bleakly out at the highway. Wine bottles crusted with blood roll around the dumpster. The mode matters but not so much as just choosing one and getting on with it. Not the heart - not even Christ - but simply the opening of what so long went closed and broken.
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