Thursday, September 12, 2019

The Destination We Were All Inevitably Bent On

Grackles appear, dismembered clouds of them undulating over the horse field, hills in the distance blazing early orange. Moving clock hands with my fingers, not worried exactly but not not worried either. One drifts, one does, doesn't one? We walk together to the river, lean on the bridge, letting what inside of us can settle, settle. So much happens after, doesn't it? Late at night going back to the familiar structures - five lines, twenty sentences, journal entries that in the morning you throw into the stove. Picking tomatoes and the last of the onions, pausing at the parsley to see if the swallowtail caterpillars are there. Girls with glasses. Remember when "all the way" excluded the destination we were all inevitably bent on? One confesses their longing for salty alternatives, one gets surprisingly definite. I mean look how tired I am, look how happy.

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