& there was the snakeroot: the clustered white
\nof wildflower that once, my uncle warned me of: <\/p>\n
don\u2019t be puttin\u2019 that anywhere near that mouth, ya hear?<\/em> I hear Start over: beside the wildflower, the faded red upon the direction of the wind, or whether or not & with what force the boy from across the road with more color: rust drowned the bell, loosely noosed There were horses there, too, speckled colts box-stalled & restless. again: of course there was my mouth. Too concerned with his to think the long driveway in citrines. Start over, what else was there? Above all of its remaining blues. None of this is right. I cannot remember to slacken beneath my hand, the canvas heavy in the paint, & today they all thicken into his body. there was a wildflower, a pasture. Horses in a stable. Behind it, boys
\nthe song of the distant catfish whispering to the riverbed. <\/p>\n
\nof the stable, with that leftward lean that varied <\/p>\n
\nthe hickory beams had yet known the gnaw of carpenter ants, <\/p>\n
\nhad pushed me up against the flaking paint that night. Do it again, <\/p>\n
\nfrom the door frame & stuffed into silence by his white undershirt. <\/p>\n
\nColumns of gunmetal smoke erupt from their nostrils. Go back, try<\/p>\n
\nabout the way light spilled from my uncle\u2019s truck, or how it lacquered <\/p>\n
\nof this: the moon\u2019s pallid scythe harvested the sky<\/p>\n
\nthat night anymore without crying. The easel is beginning <\/p>\n
\nwith color. There are too many dead things <\/p>\n
\nStart over:<\/p>\n
\nfumbled into a perfect sort of coupling. There is no smoke. No uncle <\/p>\n