In the thinning meadow two fawns hide and seek. Their spots have faded into autumn's red coat, a sort of grace that buckles knees and evokes a whispery “oh.” Soon I'll see their trail in the frost and be reminded of a presence one can know but not touch. Teachers always abound.
After midnight, I count some part of every hour. The mind/body war rages until 4 a.m.'s white flag. In my dream, car trouble on a dangerous stretch of highway. The steering wheel stiffens as I try to make it one or two exits further.
At lunch with friends I hear myself quip about this and that, realizing in several artless moments that I have become socially awkward. Why do I open my mouth? The stress of being me makes for excellent napping conditions unto which I oblige throughout the afternoon.
And since when do we not say goodnight to each other? I rage against the day's perfecting blue by planting wildflowers. How strange that it has come to this: cultivating what should be overgrown and free. This language will not be reduced. Hardy chicory then, giving what I can not.