Wishes, wants. Whims.
Because over and over the same mistaken emphasis on this or that form.
This or that image.
A religion premised on photographs, evidence, what I can see with my own eyes, and holes in flesh I can touch with my own hand.
Out back, the ponies nudge a bay of hale out of the run-in and into pale sunlight wrestling snow flurries. Winter into Spring. Spring.
Gun shots in a narrow valley, the echoes rattling my skull, my shoulder joint already pushing back against the rifle. John dead and Jesse dead less than two weeks apart, me and Sarah making love standing in the dorm stairwell at two a.m., drunk and stoned, awkward but kind, exhausted from crying, worried we'll die too, both of us even then wanting something - and someone - else.
Trimming forsythia, raking around the crocuses, waiting on blue flag.
First blow job was on the floor of M.'s living room next to the wood stove, both of us stretched out in darkness, risking and declaring and discovering. The bottom falls - always the bottom falls - and so we fall, always.
She pushes against me coming, the intensity surprising me, pushing me to come, harder than expected, sooner, both of us crying out softly, cries muffled in the other's nearness, nearby hemlocks blotting my view of the stars. Yet there was always the inclination to write poems, to somehow get closer and closer to what has always defied - playfully but unequivocally - description/explanation/etc.
Childhood was in part hidden guns, hidden whisky bottles, and an agreement not to talk about what was hidden (for much was hidden). Thus, years later, in other contexts, "where does your mind go?"
Always that dark forest past the pasture and barn, which went on for miles, where you weren't supposed to go without a gun, an eye out for witches, yet where I went, always, unarmed and in love.