I found it shoved onto a shelf in the garage of all places. Not under the bed where I'd left it most recently or so I thought. Geesh. The migratory pattern of things in a topsy turvy world. All the currents and drifts and undertows make for a confusing rush of unforeseeable patterns of barely visible movements. At this very moment, I'm neck deep in tomatoes. Green tomatoes. Red tomatoes. They've grown incredible stalks two thumbs wide and another two deep. In the time since they were thinned last, they've become top heavy and stubborn. The twine bought barely holds them; their green sap is all over my arms. It's all I can smell.
Waxen pink shoulder tips winging heavenward beware - my love - the last molten light of day.
I'm coasting along here in long rhythmic strokes many miles out to sea. Your famous face clips along port side. (It's such a relief to be with you.
To know which way you walked
and understand the grief I left you in.)
I've been writing and avoiding writing.
Tonight, this night is for nostalgia.
With appropriate editing this could all be smoothed out; but instead, I'll concentrate on missing you for as long as I'm awake. After that I make no promises.
Hello.
