by Nick Gulig
Today the redwings interrupted off the fencepost. Between one
place, where you are, and another. After harvest. We are not
together as the single oak outside the house begins to empty and
we are not together when it fills. Every distance has been rendered.
The days are absolute. When I walk into the yard a multitude of
insects flick their little lights incessantly. I flicker back. Against
the early dark, I plant the desperate parts, forgive me. As the river
lowers, as the sumac reddens like a warning. The weather, good or
bad, reverses every rage. Both is and isn’t happening, this this.
Larkspur in the far field bending
(belladonna in the