Places I Try Not To Think Of
1.
About fifteen minutes south of here, if you follow the red gold curves of the creek while the day is still ending, if you walk the soft black dirt path in August's electric reverb watching leaves drop, if you can keep your eyes on the lip of the water running ever away and keep your voice from cracking, there's a curve in the world where Michelle kissed me, our hands held surprised at our sides and our eyes afraid to open.
2.
My tires hummed three-hundred seventy-one frost glazed miles to Watertown so Sam could talk while the ice sank, and we ate hamburgers fried in plate staining slime and drank milkshakes with the flavor of water to triage the red-eyed afternoon, to make it easier to dissect books we'd not read yet, to babble over our unlivable tomorrows, to study accumulated snow like tumulted life built in drifts, built on wind and unwound lengths of ribbon used as suture.
3.
Silence covered the distance above the Bay, while the bridge stretching beneath bore us interminable as the arm of God, to whom we both exhaled lukewarm wishes while our breaths steam, my fingers furrowed through the moonstained wheel and Jane's hands folded in her lap rolling pumice-rough seconds against her skin, out the window waves peeled at the shore and the endless trestles like the tolling of midnight begun.
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