Fish are jumping deep inside the Catskills, where hickey-covered boys
and new testament gods vie for the attention of the latest Airbnb guest.
A hunter’s dog stops to sniff the guts of clay pigeons and points its ears
towards the milk-blue sky. Beyond the surf, brown pelicans are diving
for their quarry. Fiberglass arrow after fiberglass arrow lodge in the exposed
necks of the Pacific. Memories of home drip from the shaker’s sieve.
A man writes in the sand. Bolinas, Together Again. Muscles sore. I must want
To destroy my life. In the city police cadets enrolled in Crisis Intervention
Training are advised to read the body keeps the score. To them a man’s
Name is an event, writing on the wall. In the hills the fire-frightened wildlife
are drawn to the scent of what has burned, as I still smell you weeks
after leaving my home. The international court of justice reached a verdict
long ago. I remember Mark reading the villanelle he wrote about the oak
tree that waited for permission outside the library. I remember looking
at the california oak moths which danced around that tree when I could
not look at you. It was cold. Trains ran between the images that would
make up our life. The playlist says instrumental, but summertime comes on.