in my waking life, it was my town. I was hiding from me
or I was found on a bright path trellised with grape vines.
The green fruit and the green vines
that held them dangled – what else
could the plant do – and every bunch held, on its outside,
the six most perfect orbs, closed.
Or I was on a deer run, in the chill dark.
I was motionless; it was hard to move, as I was ice.
Nearby I imagined the light of your barn, a man in the yard late mowing.
There were maples in sparse rows. They constituted the orderly forest.
Or the thing that ended my hate for me
ended the thirst to stay in that place: I couldn’t hear
a man talk to me with uncommon anger, not knowing
I wouldn’t hold, hope for him again.
Then it was decided: I wouldn’t grow old here,
where always meant being in company.