(in parentheses)

I just wanted to tell you…

(I have k.d. lang singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah on a loop in the background. That tells you everything you need to know, really.


You want details, background?

No. Today, I sketch in faint pastels, impressions.

The sound of laughter as the hail pelts the trampoline turns the strawberry bed into salad.



“It’s a $30 bottle of wine!” the poet holds the label up for me to see. “S-w-eet, is it full?”

No, it’s recycling, tipped over by the water, by that car.

At home, I have a bottle of significantly sub-$30 Mengage A Trois. We will drink it later, after we mop your kitchen floor.

The storm sewer drain is a bubbling fountain, and we are knee-high in freezing hail water, helpless and wanting to be doing something, but what?

Fire department. We all know we’re having a June 2013 flashback. They’re kind.


Text: “I carelessly walked to the hail and rain singing my song.”

It’s over very quickly, really. The alley drains. Dry. Everything’s fine.


It’s probably a very good thing there is only one bottle of wine between the three of us, no?

In the morning, sunlight dancing in raindrops still suspended in battered leaves. Traffic reports, road closures, news I don’t particularly want to hear.

“There’s still snow on the trampoline!”

It melts as the sun continues to shine.


“Yes, please.”

Memories are made of this.

nbtb-in parentheses

And what are we if not our memories?)

…but I couldn’t quite figure out how to do it.



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