Loon-call in the dark calf-cramp in the spring neck-rub in the parlour milk-sip at end of day. Goodbye, I must now say goodbye to all of it. Tying a shoe tying a knot on a package a mouth on yours a hand on yours the ending of the day the beginning of the day the feeling that there will always be a day ahead. The way a moistness in the eye will blur a field of stars the sore place on the shoulder a resting toboggan makes writing one’s beloved’s name upon a frosted window with a gloved finger. Geese above, clover below, the sound of one’s own breath when winded. Someone’s kind wishes for you someone remembering to write someone noticing that you are not at all at ease.Ī bloody ross death-red on a platter a headgetop under-hand as you flee late to some chalk-and-woodfire-smelling schoolhouse. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry a friendly match-share beneath some collision-titled streetlight a frozen clock, a bird visited within its high tower cold water from a tin jug towering off one’s clinging shirt post-June rain. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. “There was nothing left for me to do, but go.

In the bardo