they said it was painting the fence that did it.
the heat and the work and then maybe the rest, too.
it makes me think of Tom Sawyer.
I could never imagine that scene beyond a shallow depth.
sidewalk, boy, fence, and a backdrop of nothing
your best friend’s wife stood up and told us
you came to her, you told her how angry you were. I believed her.
I still do. what a strange thing.
one summer I found a translated copy of Franny & Zooey in the basement.
I never asked if it was yours, and I never read it, though I always wondered
what it would sound like
how funny that it all comes back to flight,
the controlled rise and fall
this time it was in August, this time in a plane.
all perfectly dramatic, like a mediocre Oscar contender
but it was real, and I was the last stop.
it's interesting what melts away.
just me and him and my words and his pace and a slow walk back towards life,
if I’m lucky and strike the balance right.
it always comes back, hardening like candle wax as it cools
the wick has moved though, sinking a little deeper.
an experienced fresco painter knows how much surface can be painted in a day
the amount is the giornata. a day’s work.