Start This Record Over
Perhaps is a new and sudden way of being.
Like satisfaction yet begun or some other kind
a more gentle one?
Night makes us all into the middle
of something until we aren’t
anything anymore. The sky
isn’t any color here. It’s okay
because consolation is color enough
for your cheeks, wind-bitten and glorified
by the light of the wine in this glass draining
toward a better time, a better space. I invented
a notion of hell and you invented a notion of hello.
Amazing similarities and bizarrely coincidental snow.
Like a twig falling from an oak’s tallest point,
I keep wondering when forgiveness
found its way into this world
in a time before bargaining and beckoning.
It’s quiet again and now the sky is a tangled
mess of rags seeking out the bored and unwilling.
I’d like to make a map not of the land
but of the path I took to arrive in this place,
a map with no idealized purpose,
a map of a thousand airless pines.about the author