wetsuits barely keep our bodies from illness while our whinging bonds us. they holler native yawps as the boat swoops with the current. thrice this week I’ve spilled salt. thrice I’ve wondered over which shoulder to throw it. to rout the remains of injury from what you called love. the deer remain in place as I, too an animal, pass quietly by; there are new green shoots too tasty to take leave of. nearby: the canyons have got hot, and we snowshoe in the forests. constantly changing: clothes, wind, sun, moods among them all. though they are never separate from we. I shall define love now, by illustration. banishment. practice.

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