Bottleneck

Yours was an intelligent throat. A place. An unfaithful transcription: the snow covering an empty church yard. Next to the house where we made ourselves breakfast. Where we made ourselves a coalition. A fuck in the guest room. A moment of nakedness where we disclosed or at least alluded to previous wounds. The early light severing. The us that we weren’t. Part of my argument is that the estrangement of any two things gives them a likeness. It’s not a new idea. My friends all resemble each other, same as the green shadows that fall under ledges, the rabbit mirroring the hawk overhead. Where am I going with this? If you were here I know you’d explain it better than I could. That the statue and the cemetery are both alone with their memories. That we wanted them gone. We wanted them banished.