I knew my energies were about to be claimed by a long stretch of work, as if I were a 1950’s shrimper on the Gulf of Mexico, absent from home for weeks or months at a time.

With that in mind, I savored every atom of reorganized dust, every particle of structured matter that made possible the summer evening spent in the company of two women.

August lay across our thighs, our chests, while we waited for the moonflower to open, and turn its head, and look with a new white face, westward.

I knew then, life was not finished with me after all, and that it may yet offer up something besides pain, if only another chance to see pain through clearer eyes.

So I drove down to the lake and slipped the blade of my body into the sheath of the water, thinking how so many things swell to an inevitable climax while drawing no attention to themselves.


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