into the house that smells like man spice, woodsmoke, soap, oil
you can find eyes ancient dreaming above wood kitchen table covered in white lace beside the turn of a washing machine
and set a lunch tray quietly so as not to disturb his writing and reading back to himself in ancient voice deep dreaming, “22, Regretful. 22, Regretful.”
and walk out of the wooden man world humming memory, “22, Regretful.”


the river biked here the river biked here
the scab is falling
sheets of ice wide as clouds
move fast down the river
ice glimmer unreal in the sun
the wound is healing
the scab is falling
roar the sheets plow against river boulders
parts break away
pile against rock
parts continue their spill and become
ice drift farther up

all these people bike d here the people biked here
these people in the park living inside my eyes and ears, my life

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