turns in the forest—tired of the same loop—the trees
shedding their bark, devastated by bore holes decades after
it was fashionable—remember stomping here through
June & July, talking to you for hours on the phone—we 
hadn’t figured out that the pronoun no longer belonged to us
or at least I hadn’t—once we had tried to clear this patch 
of land—bridge blocked by fallen trees—paths to nowhere
a rotted trunk I push—it topples—early August I was out there
with a machete—full of rage—trimming the tree ends—they
always brushed us when we passed—remember thinking—
boiling—of the two of you—couldn’t let it go—I had grasped
too hard—was still grasping—thought that it was mine to keep—
somehow lost the blade—flew from my hands—into the deepest
muck of the creek—bent low to the water—tried to find it—swished
a stick uncertain through the bed of rotted leaves—nothing—
called Neil and told him—how poetic—appropriate—a lesson
I still needed to learn—hadn’t learned then—still haven’t—
now turning back, walking along the frozen creek—find it 
handle-first in the midst of a bed of weeds—dull blade waving 
in the air—growing there—must have passed it who knows how many
pull it out—dust off—trace its blade—gently now—in the snow
lines as thin as possible

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