find a leftover stack of bliny on the dining-room table, and decide to make a late-night supper (supper is one of those left-over words from my childhood and my neck of the woods that brings me stares now)--throw on some ham and cheese, have a smoke under the maple tree with the old dog kneeling at my heels.
after eight years, no better definition of love tonight...
.
.
.
the procession
there they go
my thoughts
in the mown grass
pushing across the pavement
like storm clouds
what do you want from me?
i talk to the birds
i was born in the wrong time
wrong body
for this weather
i’m wrong
that we had something special
just because we had
something
today
i learned
the
long meaning of roads—possum, armadillo
hare, black cub
wolf, stag, sparrow, whelk
in the endless row of
phantoms
a ruthless faith
in the way things go’s
led me back and forth
in a long disruption
of my love for you
we still have it
though
