Explanation Given a Friend
Those times I build a fire, stretch out, let whiskey’s warm apparatus slip into me the way my idea about God does. Toward morning I see the fine gray arriving from some dim prairie, the sky already full of useless tools.
On the Haw River
I drift minutely, thinking of water as an element in the fundamental sadness of late afternoon. Improbably alive, glad for once to be longing, I want to slip in with the trout, in love with the dim ways of April.