I sharpened knives
All night.
To welcome you

Photo: sitting by the cabin on Lake Au Train
We rented every summer, reading John Cheever,

They talk oil in heavy jackets and plaid over 
their coffee, they talk Texas and the north cold,

When I was twelve, 
My tennis coach asked me 
To pose for him after practice.

I’m tired of life and its troubles.
Whoever lives as long as I have or will
grows weary: it’s inevitable.

The women examined you with furrowed brows, looking as though they had been toasted by years of sun.

If the Emperor smiles
a thread falls that cuts

I want color to braid,
to bleed, want song 
to fly to flex to think

Here there are small animals 
foraging and content
Perhaps this is what’s called 

The winter sun says fight.
The arctic blasts say fight.
This polar world is flat