why are sign and the gift of why you what book

They clanked steins and his dad said something sexual about me I have tried to forget it.

The mustard is tipped upside down beside the new bottle of sriracha.

I wonder if he ever made it back to Haiti.



The soft animal of my body wants the soft animal of his body.

Yet we walk around hard so much of the time.


I see it and I am choosing to ignore it.

Not much gets past me, Sherlock.


I have eaten the grapefruit and the gluten-free crackers.

I have remembered climbing up through those green aspen trails.


In late spring we traveled to Moab, Capitol Reef, Pink Coral Sand Dunes, the Grand Canyon, the reservation, Mesa Verde, Telluride, and that scorched desert trail not far from the Palisades. I love this country, the land of it. I love sleeping in a tent night after night and living out of a cooler and a duffel in the trunk of the car.




I have decided I will be returning to Pennsylvania, if only for a week; too many days away from the mountains she will be gasping for air.


Crepuscular

Romanesco

mustard green jacket with red and white flannel lining

flying squirrels, industrial bridge, two egrets standing in blue water




We will not be seeing them for Thanksgiving I am sad about it.

He is going to find somewhere to volunteer. I am going to drive back across the country with my best friend. We will sleep in tents under dark southern skies as we did when we were 17 barefoot and dirty in Tennessee and again when we traveled to Washington to see him and then recovered from our mosquito bites by shopping for hand-thrown pottery in Arkansas


Now I am contorted uncomfortable over the loveseat listening to the Talking Heads.


I did not become the ice dancer instead I taught quiet yoga class, drove home past clusters of masked hooligans, hugged my dog and kissed the soft orange head of my cat, watched a few episodes of Bob's Burgers, ate a dinner of kale, broccoli, onion, red potatoes, and peach jerk sausage, read a little, ate the grapefruit, and then picked up the laptop to write. I suppose I am either growing into myself or becoming far too insular. I think the former, he said and I realized how rarely the former is emphasized over the latter.



Wilson has moved onto my chest and liquefied there, his face disappearing beneath my right boob.

I have been experimenting and I think it's more than placebo; I think those clear and mossy green beads are really onto something. 


Oh I am so excited at the prospect of seeing my friends.

I remember running together through those sketchy research trails behind the college baseball fields; on the dusty trails beloved by local mountain bikers; through the dense foliage of the state and county parks

Too many of my supposed friends have tried to kiss me and become enraged when I said no.

I remember bending over to retrieve the railroad spike in that run-down town in northern Maine. I am homesick for it.

Tomorrow I must commit to deep breathing.



I purchased the smallest canvases I could find and I painted each of them a different ratio of yellow mixed into purple and purple mixed into yellow.