Patterns Nobody Asked For

Catbirds singing in the raspberry bushes. The world in a blade of grass.

The multiverse in what you insist I remember. Notes for later. "Don't come," she whispered, kneeling beneath the Perseids, giving me head for a moment before straddling me with a soft groan. This: This this.

Later we sit with iced tea and lemon watching the horses graze, trying to decide if the older one is behaving any differently on account of his eye. Rolling rice and fried eggplant in collard greens for steaming. 

Checking in, out.

What passes.

I remember visiting churches in Europe, confused about the Lord, knowing my parents would approve, and yet oddly happy in spite of it all. Heaven is processual, perspectival, possible. Fire ants.

Distant thunder. Eighteen-wheelers leaning on the brakes where Route Nine dips heading south. We lean in to each other, broken and knowing it, happy nonetheless.

Is there such a thing as silence after all?

Cheap tattoos, memories of blowjobs you wish you hadn't given, dead cows your Dad blamed you for, and now this. 

Joe Pye Weed. Patterns nobody asked for, like will it rain or will it not and when.