only sometimes, lost, other times, a beginner.

wind, during, spear, meadow. girls paint a picnic table, i practice throwing my hatchet… we picnic lunch, i shoot my buck, girls are all women. and glory is ticking. the problem with luck like this, is, you never learn your lesson. shucks almost a year since the old-timer died… he survived his love by eleventy years and fought out truth in its stead.
sitting below seymour mountain, playing the weather like a memory plays me. the mountains are hung in lacies of ice. no one climbs those sky hangings, they collapse. the backs of my hands count among those places i get lost. i’ve always been more willing to judge people if i’ve noticed their fingernails.

pull your dry orange face from the fire of millipede scurries. splits run the insides of arms and thighs. i can’t quite imagine bobcats or chinatown, anyways not in terms of myself. the elevation of this town is stamped into my skull. but only sometimes, when i’m standing of course, do i opt to add six. the most i’ve kicked a piece of gravel is only five blocks. anybody could do more.

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