A Version of Maine
“Am I then this one fact forever,” he said…
“Until time runs out,” she said, pushing
Her golden bangs away from her eyes. Oh,
And the maples were
Already splotched with burning.
Snow filled the muddy footprint.
You could tell they were in for it.
Sore appendages. Raw throats.
Why did we keep returning
To bear witness to the same truth: something
In here is living with us.
We ate again. Sausages, wild rice—
A salad of lettuces.
A new average settled in. The unspoiled time
Of the future lay inside a forked past.
“The mice are well-fed at least,” she blurted out.
It was evening. The moonlight did something to her.
To him. Oily crumbs of stars on the newsprint sky.
We all laughed. We had another one.
Douglas Piccinnini, Victoria
(Bloof Chapbook Series, 2019)