Among tall silver birches. Dogs yipping beyond the timberline. In my bag, a clementine for us to split. The river’s image trembles as you dip your foot in, raking the pebbles back and forth till silt rises to the surface.
With cries we woke the bear whose slumber was ancient, the bees whose frenzied paths were as methodical as a plowman’s. Between thickets we darted, our breath held like an amulet between our numbed hands.
I’m reading Zami in my girlfriend’s bed. It’s the first time I’ve read it in a long time, and will be her first time if she reads it like I told her to. She got it at the library after I found it and I said,
It doesn’t feel that hard but that could be a sign That these are so bad; I have no sense. Thinking about keeping these up all summer feels like Planning a wedding:
Katie said they were nettles and I guess she was right. I think they’re very pretty—taller than I am, thin-throated and headed with a pink bulb made of linear petals. I don’t know what they feel like, though I’ve wanted to touch.
