Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Horsebarn Hill

The inconstant enemies, our favorite trope.
Even during the days when we walked
the woods behind Horsebarn Hill, a flask
of whiskey, a joint if we were lucky,
imagining ourselves Coleridge and Wordsworth,
Gertie and Alice, Frost and himself,
the lines between us were ghost-drawn,
and we knew that one day we'd be in
civil war, defending ourselves against
our other in a fight to the death of us.
That death, like every death, is realized
in silence. The last words thud
like a dead rabbit hitting the ground.
At night when I can't sleep, I remember
those woods, the skeleton of a deer
that I dragged back and placed
in the living room, astonished at
the beauty of its spine.

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