History is a series of apologies, unmet by the eyes of the forced-down—a cold donor of blood in search of a talker to listen with.

    stone bridge
    cropped in the
    photograph out

Skunks in the yard teemed to shrubs as snowy slop fell against the sky’s foundry. I hold the lantern. You hold my hand not holding the lantern. The moon flinches, flickers. We right ourselves versus the hedge of glowworms. Stalks loosened from the correct thresher. Shown out along the roseate passenger bridgeworks with a flashlight for dome light, or a match as a watery headlight.