Knots in Me Unraveling

A fingernail, a crow. Totems. Dad's various surgeries until he waved them away, done with a body that had only brought him pain, went on alone without once looking back. Masks we spend a lifetime crafting. Windblown snow once crusted evokes as always a lunar landscape. We talk in the dark, sitting up in bed, morning light bleeding around the curtains. Familiar woes like boulders in a river. Thoreau said Walden was the Ganges, I say Bronson Brook is the Ganges. A mountain that changes color each time I see it, a Jesus who is never unhappy I am asking him for help. Going sideways at a late stage, ice melting on a cast iron stove. A nuance in the sentence observed by others, thus there, regardless of the author's intention or skill. Sex at highway rest stops a feature of my early twenties, all that traveling and the dialogic intimacy it bred, fast and hot, rolling down the windows after, breathing sweet air, knots in me unraveling. Opals and sapphires on our tongues. In dreams I know more about guitars than when awake. Forgive me? Pull over, pull out, pull rank. Losing it for no good reason, unless losing it again is a reason. This this, inclusive.