Fish fry in Benoit. Joyce brings a hundred dollars in… almost right to your mouth and you wonder if it’s just too easy

something feels as though it is at unease because it has not settled.

Fish fry in Benoit. Joyce brings a hundred dollars in cod and beer almost right to your mouth and you wonder if it’s

the truck is gone. the truck is scrap. (just that one half of the bumper, just that license plate from Big… everything else is gone.

After close, the image loosens until it is just being held together.

it is March now. winter hangs on while spring looks on waiting.

the still rising sun calls to you to rise; early morning dawn light brings you to a particular log and leaves you there,

some metal piece out of place disturbs everything and suddenly i’m windbound on a calm night. left to my own devices,

the Aurora roared above us and in sweeping, arcing curves mimicked the path of the luge.

leeks bursting seedpods, equinox of our summer, moon becoming full.

we held the dream between our holding hands. we held our hands in the warmth of my coat pocket

tension stretching strings of muscle in the dirt warmth next to wildflowers, my feet stepping in prayers.

before you go, things left undone. loose ends, too many to tie so quickly.

the best strawberry is the smallest, not-in-the-garden strawberry that grows between and beneath the grass and tallgrass

A stone in the lake old as water. Older than any question. Older than dirt and more stubborn. Round.