The Passing

All day long and I haven’t yet. The time just passes like bad weather and winter. I haven’t smiled. We say the trees are dripping in the fog, when I want them to eat dirt, breathe the light, sweat in the morning sun. Soft cries are distant in the wood of the mountains. I haven’t heard the wind falling in the trees like water. I laughed and felt bad that it wasn’t funny. The cries are like the passing of a train. The river, we say, follows the valley to the sea, where it just ends. All that water.

January 1972