I am grateful, especially to the ones whose names I don’t know and can never learn. Nameless, faceless, I thank you. You cut the
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
Not the catalpa trees, but the worms themselves, not the worms but the neighbor girl who slipped them through her lips, feeling their dry