In the summer of ‘66 I dated a guy with hair the color of napkin. We knew how to appreciate the little we had. Slept on a futon that doubled as a day couch. Caught crayfish in Cripple Creek with our hands. Sought truth, but never found it. You had to cut through a mackerel forest of pretense that grew thicker, compressed with each additional day. We were drenched in silt by late August. When the trees flamed, I split, like leaves, one limb, then another. My heart was last to go. Some of what remains.
First published at No Contact Mag in 2021.