After imagery of our evening, water spilled over negatives,
Some washed away, others splintered intersection of ice
Crossed by ice. You were walking the hill, a child
On your hip, beer bottle in hand. Your face, caught in a car
Glass, not in or out, still just long enough
To mark your passage into an afterworld of not knowing,
Not knowing you --- projections of you at ease on the dark
Muskeg of the bed, then asking in the chiaroscuro darkness,
“Look at me. Look at me.”
Blue ice has been leached of its salt.
There are stories. A man disappears over the horizon,
In the shadow of his absence a wolf returns.
This story is about that wolf, this story is about that man.
They sit down at your table and tell this story.
This Story by David Koehn
To a Literary Friend by Constantine Contogenis
Vernal Equinox by Mary Chatfield