Monday May 21 11:34pmi poured salt into your morning cereal, milk into your wounds.
your knees are sunburned and peeling; summer skin freckled over
with moonlight. the hollow beneath your throat
that vibrates w hen you sing. perfect pitch.
there will be novels written about this, about us. how the mint
and basil in the garden swung in glass jars from string,
how i cut myself by accident trying to pull them down.
in the kitchen, on the counter, the knife. you put it to my wrist
and said, just one more.
there are wolves prowling around the backsteps
are we in the middle of the arctic?
all these glaciers in the yard: frozen for miles.
the heater is hissing in the cold bedroom.
let me tell you the shortest story you will ever hear:
in the woods, something lives.
