Somewhere summer 2021 in Columbia County, New York.
Why do I loathe summer (while dreaming it from a distance of unforgiving winters)? Because hating beats the residual ambivalences that press into my pineal gland like some new, yet ancient, killer bug unearthed over the course of this year’s deforestings. Or:
There are certain days and nights from my estival archive that redeem this dumb making season. Summer loses its savor as life trudges onward, but to remember a car ride on that stretch of road—for example—through a northern border while a summertime like childhood came back as some Lady Lazarus: the sky still half full of sun over corn fields and orchards and dairy farms. The swollen yellow moon pushed into windshield and windows, as if to say prophetically—remember me.
Something you’d never seen before, city fool. Yet it was so much old news for the girl, in the carseat beside you, who grew up debating the ravens.
They say you get over every thing and one. But it isn’t true, as you realize long afterward while picking the ghost wounds that remade your life a perpetual gray when you lost sun and moon and raven girls in summer cars.
