I mean the shadows of the horses. Clouds far away, like trout in a low river.
Walking all morning to where in winter the river will freeze beneath wheels and tables of ice.
From a distance, goldfinches in the sunflowers, and the specific joy of saying so. Chrisoula brings coffee, bad news.
Thumping sounds in the horse trailer. Giving back what was stolen, refusing everything else.
Shadows beyond the horse pasture which are openings in the forest through which one can make out nothing. The witch, the woman the witch became, and the man who sees them both.
Holding hands in bed before sleep, too tired to make love. It all burns, goes up in smoke.
For years I confused my father with a fire, and fire for something you cared for. Gunshots, soul shots. The abyss littered with selfies.
Forget-me-nots. Second thoughts. Snakes curled up in flower pots.
Whole flocks of birds traveling south, reminding me of grief, and what grief comes to.
Butterflies, better days, these bitter drafts my throat cannot renounce.