Dry lines are all that I have to tell me that the talk was good. We walked with the metal stands surrounding us, holding us in fact, as if we were dropped right in the middle. The field was green, but darker than usual…maybe because of the conver-sation…or maybe because it was night. Somewhere the lights were bright…but here…they lacked con-viction…flickering high above…only when one of us squinted… trying to remember. It had been real, but often mis-understood. The con-nection was never about the gifts or the praise… you missed that part. All I ever wanted… was your pre-sence. Why you could not see…under…I will never stand. Even in the darkness, I was tall…sudden, yet dim illum-ination was not the one to reveal me. So, we trudge on, hands in pockets, waiting for the awk-ward to finally join us. We both know it is coming, the past can only stick around for a twitch or a crease, it too has somewhere else to be. The inner cataloguing seems more elastic than the first loop…as if this is a necessary thought. But what if the lines… are not really lines at all? Only hardening mem-ories from the last lap. I look to you to stop, before we trample what we lay. As I head for the grass, I am met only with the blank stare of what had previously been pro-tected. There are exits all around, tunnels at every turn. Which one did you take? If you promise to come back…I promise to never again…hyphenate the frame.