Mind is Triangular, Polysyllabic

How as kids we candled eggs in the kitchen. By what sorcery was the nineteenth century allowed to live in your brain? Frost spackles the potato garden where we talk with our shoulders hunched. Six p.m., hour when the dead visit without recognizing anything. Geese pass, their guttural cries a reminder of some kind, of what perhaps will outlast us. REM cycles, condoms, buttercrunch ice cream. How we parked, climbed into the truck bed, and made love, bark from the day before's firewood in your hair. You wait all night for what's coming down from the hill and in the morning you're waiting there still. D minor chords, trucks rolling slowly up Main Street, as if the driver were searching for someone walking. What in mind is triangular, polysyllabic. The revelation was given too early and I am what happened as a result. Standing in the barn while it rains, gazing out the open door at the neighbor's sheep, unconcerned in the bland wet landscape. Another sip, another step. Something is always being born and we miss it because of our odd obsession with death. Imagine passing a cup of coffee back and forth, tired after a long day's work, letting the weather be weather, and love, love.