What about now?

what would I write in my last love letter to you? would you read the wild and open sky? what about the shaded ravines where I always caught my breath against the awful humidity of morning in summer. when you saw me holding my head in my hands, were you also hearing God’s voice, like the low rumble of thunder we would hear most nights lying in bed with all the windows open, fans oscillating? in my last love letter to you, would you catch the way the air smelled right along the rocky beach where we would meet and not have to say anything at all because the crash and spray of Lake Michigan already had us dead to rights? do you remember when we drove from SLC to Ashland, Oregon in a day? do you remember the first time I told you I loved you? what about now? 


Evelyn

in the flecks of afternoon

sunlight, help me turn

over each heavy stone.

or let’s just sit along the

gnarled roots earnestly

listening to all manner

of songbird and summer

insect. 

no, you do not pretend 

to love me. pale clouds 

hang lazily overhead.

your heartbeat is a 

rocky mountain stream,

and your laughter is the

song of the black capped

chickadees.

I keep waking up and turning over

and what did Burroughs say? the ghost is always looking for its body? bits of gravel stuck in the rubber tread of my boot. trees all pushed over along this section of trail. snarled roots with folded scraps of paper – stashed away. ink bleeding through now. in the morning mist: a reclamation? a secret? but I am not the avalanche or the colorful dog bags hung up in the branches. I am not the trailhead or the summit’s frown. legs ache. I’m out of breath – no! these are all oil and brush stroke! I keep waking up and turning over. little glows and the moonlight creeping in. who is here with me? are you? little moonlight skipping across the lake, now photo still.  Barclay looming. and today, beaver-sign, muddy creek bed. I keep turning over. little ghosts. there’s low thunder in my chest and I hold it there and it’s too heavy, like avalanche snow – like mudslides and roots and little notes.