I Travel East Alone

Chipmunks and sparrows nibble the strawberries, mice die reaching for sunflower seeds set just so in spring-loaded traps. It's not okay really but what are you going to do. A lot gets elided by et cetera! We talk about Civil War photography, especially that one of Lewis Powell, e.g., Lewis Payne, about whom it was said - forgive the shitty paraphrase - he is dead and he is going to die. We bond, one way or the other, and thus deal in bonds. Shards of glass were scattered on North Winooski Ave, streetlights making them glisten like diamonds, all of the light blurred because I was crying leaving. Sliced grapefruit, black coffee. Penance. Horses grazing between leggy buttercups followed by cowbirds followed by a swallowtail. And if it were possible to make her happy, would I, and what would my living look like then? We plot to cut another hemlock, no way around it now the tree is mostly dead. Wind makes a big noise above the meadow. Wouldn't you like to know? At the last minute I travel east alone, unhappy but accepting it, as in this late stage of love one does. When you go, I will hold a good thought for you, will once a year drink a coffee for you. The letter arrives and I don't open it, wondering how we do it, all of us confused and the hour late. I mean lay down our burdens and go.