This was one of several psalms he thought crawling into a dark bed, lowered head. He squared away another day hoping he’d have time to say, Yes, OK. Time to swallow a banana in smaller bites, time to stew a great paella like he used to on a blue Indiana afternoon. He lives in New York, now Nobody thinks of the pitch-black majestic.
Last Valentine’s, he was sitting with someone in a Waffle House, laughing at 1 a.m., playing MASH on a states placemat and basking. Fools. You need to grow with. You need Adam’s brittle rib. For the love of God, tie each other’s arms together like licorice. Fling yourselves into an open field where no one can see you land, to tomorrow cast in yellow light, to mountains, mountains where you could take a man’s body as you would a jar of honey, as if you’d never known the cruel summer. Like how it was before, I guess. Smile. Do it with your socks on. Be less afraid of the things you keep secretly alive inside you now. The small, howling dogs.