Mean to me…all is joyfully officious…the skirts are out…I forgot my socks and stunk, and blistered upon the flattops of the burning gravel…and the soft fur would ever remain parted and black. There were no fleas, ticks or buzzards. You felt flimsy being carried back to the nest. But at least we were finally done and the trap door slammed beyond invented cobwebs and the earth skinned its knees, and the sky emptied its bowels and the verbs moved all to tears who were impressed by irreverence and the elastic snap of the piercing silence that swings beneath the lobe of the ear. Now I clench my fist and dip my right cheek down to meet the rough circle of the bitten scar. The screen is clung to by tape, yet the wind confronts us unabated. There are leafy green weeds that attach to the patio like ornaments to a tree. Their vibration is indistinguishable from the mortuary door that drags against the threshold, merely two quick miles past the sticky overlay of the whispering chasse. But I still hear your bell and I can still wrap myself in the name staked upon the allelic print of your towel. There is a catharsis from self- crime, that happens everyday, until you drag me to a state I cannot repay for coming true. Do not forget your socks or the succussion. The onion tastes different with every passing year. What could I have done with lighter steps and a lucid maze?

I would move on in a heartbeat if memories could be undone….and maybe today would only have prolonged the inevitable aspiration. Out in the brush we had something in common…you heading for home, me waiting in a pit for arraignment. Others would soon be following out of their own, faulty concerns. I had not thought about splitting up until your bell careened as a witness. Two sets of prints were definitely not foe, and toasted fronds worked better than matches. We can reference the birthday in another accord. If you promise to consider the weight of my words…I will set off for feathered branches.