Back from Her Window

Toy trains and fire trucks. Disaster was always on hand and it got to where you kind of liked it. Can we all be kinder to koi, please? In my mind I can still walk - literally step for step - all the trails I knew in Worthington half a century ago. Belief is a kind of bleeding. Not a story so much as a storyteller in the end. Nontrivial networks that kept me close to bears, crows, trout, pheasants, deer, foxes and something so dangerous I still can't name it. It's easier to write than not write, is how. Chrisoula asks can we cancel certain social commitments, stay in, and of course I say yes. Sun going down, work not even close to done, but putting it all aside to be with her. Against the cold, these bodies. You think prisms sleep? Even in this darkness. Smoke rises, wind comes hard down Main Street, and you taste rum despite not having had any for going on forty years. The cliche is instructive, rewriting critical, but also sometimes you just have to get on with it. Now I am lifted and set further back from Her window, as if to make room for the worthy. Let me not resist this death. Also: where are those renamed bluets now son?