To think about not thinking about the mourning doves was still thinking about them.

So still in the backyard, talking of sorrow.

We had been navigating through childhood neighborhoods to rescue magnolias.

Driving diagonally through crisscrossed streets for a new point of view.

We drove the wrong car, the one that wasn’t paid for.

That was before the ghost of the house stole your newest watch.

Time isn’t helpful, one of us said.

The wind moved through us as if we were wind.

Our shortcomings mistranslated next weekend.

We left the tome of questions on the coffee table before one of us drowned.

The TV was out of touch.

We visited a museum built out of numbers.

Someone said, I’m an exhibit of deconstruction.

I’m a parallelogram.

I lost the horizon while I slept.

I danced with the old woman because she was already me.

When the windshield wipers broke, it was raining on the highway.

The model ship folded into an envelope on someone’s doorstep.

Strangers spoke of their dogs and how crowded Walmart was at night.

I wasn’t there.

I was watching myself much later.

The river was swollen from snow uphill.

All intel indicated epitomes not epiphanies.

We burned our effigies in olive oil thunder away from the huddle of cows.

Night carried scents of smoke-wood and rain.

Nature buried her own somewhere we visited while dreaming.

Our unchronological stories bargained one kind of longing for another.

We wanted to trade places for a week or two.

One hand clapping sounded like a heartbeat.

I slept in forsythia branches sprouting yellow stars but woke in daffodil bells.

The coyotes may have visited.

I can’t tell.

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