A softness underfoot. When certain of the apples fall they are allowed to remain in dewy grass for days so groundhogs, rats and birds may dig at them. Using "fuck" in a context that upon reflection may not have been appropriate. A joy that is fundamentally accompaniment. Prosthetics as metaphor. Do you remember drinking beers on the open porch in late fall, both of us out of place at frat parties, dreaming of lakeside darknesses in which to touch and kiss and whisper. Elusive centers. How after making love beneath the Pleiades a last time we draw the blankets closer, letting the embers darken, understanding more than we care to about loss. Trout songs, bear songs, turkey songs. It's dawn, everything is new. Even now the story you tell yourself is less familiar than you think.
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