the year of two houses
splitting the self—everything in bags—what to leave behind
something to write against—a movie plays in the other room
(a woman moans in pleasure—period clothing—I don’t remember
that from the book). a noise in the woods—when first we
moved here—two am—something knocking not far away
but there’s nothing with us—a warning, maybe—or a hammer
or a tree slowly stretching itself—another image—March 3, 2019
winter coats and hats, a frisbee underneath your arm, we’re in
the bright white light of the forest—didn’t notice until just now
the trail of footprints—quite wide—a lot of people—
but we were alone—early
I remember—squinting in the sun
