In the morning you can reach out and see on the breeze in the mind the damp stone tightening straps keep him in place the pain in his cell the confession conversion meaningless at this point or the life by the sea rough stone grey the children I pushed through and lined up in the earth and the cliffs so beautiful lonely one time one town on the frontier barely built I can still smell new cut wood that simple home sun creeping through seams in the wall another sunny place warm weather sweet breeze always fetching writing down his many thoughts the wine was good

early morning planning wind scurries waiting for coffee to kick the air to clear on the lookout for the best conjugations the cut is healing nicely as violets and others I can’t name invade the running commentary in moments of quiet the thought makes it all crumble so we remain vigilant it takes years to articulate at least that’s what it says on the business card we hand out a little too freely though after all why not what was buried looks quite different when they show up with the picks and shovels and yes I hear it too the whole house about to speak some long-abandoned language