Early in this evil year comes autumn. I walk in the fields at night, the cold wind at my hat, the rain rattles…And you? And you, my friend?   You are standing—perhaps—and scanning the sickle-moon vault over forests in its little arcing bends and bivouac fire, red in the jet-black valley. You are sprawling—perhaps—in a field of straw, sleeping, and soft dew falls on your forehead, your armor of a war-jacket.   You could be on horseback tonight, stationed at the outpost, peering out, gun in fist, whispering to your horse, stroking away its fatigue… Perhaps—I think—you are spending the…

Watcher – this, your face pink-cheeked with abandon. This your hidden, thrumming hand. This, your wine-shadowed longing draped over his shoulders, laid flush against the petal white expanse of his chest – penetrable. Press it and he’ll bruise. Paint it and you’ll wound him beyond repair. Render the translucent skin of his throat in pigment, apple flesh, immutable. You have left so many places to sink your teeth. Consecrate his vulnerability in the sanctum of memory. Dust, not age, will pool in the hollow of his clavicle, that place where you once rested your callous hands, your long fingers drawing…