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, deeper with each additional day. We
were covered 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 it remains.