how i balk at lunch
about the cult with the purple robes and nikes
who cyanided themselves to catch a ride
on the comet passing through
when darien tells us that some of them
also voluntarily castrated themselves
and how i go on to joke when i can
about cutting off my balls
which doesn’t necessarily sound very funny right nere/now
but we couldn’t stop laughing about it then

seen from the forest path
down to the cedar room:
the smooth brown of shitakes bursting
out the bark of the logs tilted 
on their ends under the shade of the filling-in canopy


rachel katz and i joking about
the proverbial ball pit
and pink-iced doughnuts with sprinkles
awaiting her at a future startup job
should she choose to move out of the 
non-profit sector
the hot water bottle i place next to mama cat
in the box on my porch that mama cat has taken up residence in
while the bone-deep wet cold
keeps wetting and colding out there
the sound of rain dropletting on the roof played against
the sound of wood in the stove crackling into flame
plus the whooshes of wind moving through

how, when i name the people i miss,
i also name bodies of water,
sky views and
ocean vistas and 
ferns and forests

the lone spring peeper
over near karma pond
through the wet and dark and cold
(which, it seems, will continue for days)


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