before it was a metaphor First scrape fat from skin, turn to sun what never felt light, in vitriol bathe open wounds, sear to
Merced, Autumn Sunsets, crows head west in low sparse flocks, loose groups crossing the sky towards the glow, rays gilding valley oak and beeches
Then we woke in a period of suspension. Of being kept within a violated interior, an erasure in which each of us lived in
For years the roof of this house sloped, front and back, a perfect, Cape Cod symmetry. Until new owners built an addition with a