from Leafmold


Instead of attacking an idea, maybe draw a polite circle around it? A robin’s egg, broken but empty on the concrete—could be lucky, could be unlucky. Necrology: god of percentages, let the year be only itself, the seasons seasonable. Less and less things to say, more and more to forget. A red eye in the brain, watching what you watch, cringing from darkness, opening full to the light. A ten point buck in velvet staring my father down at the end of the driveway. Three days later and I’m still striving to describe how the wind moved acre on acre of corn, soybeans, maples, wheat, cattails; I’m reduced to shimmering. Constantly the forgetting and inside it: bats clinging to the damp throats of caverns, the chaos of chopping and stirring from an adjacent room, the temper of heaven remaining cool even as an unknowing pilgrim explodes in fifty directions. The livery breast of bufflehead resists even the soy sauce and chili oil I soak it in—but I eat it grilled, cringing at the odor— complete and happy.

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