after Yeats I’m getting up soon, and going to the lake, where my father’s cabin leans toward the north, more chinks between the logs
Post horse-kick to the knee, post-election, I still take to the trail on foot. An hour a day in the woods, two miles tops,
When Bret turned 50 I thought of my aunt dead in her bed at 71, alone in the gulley where leaves rained down from