* Story of 1 A man lives a cave of trees, evergreens bunched tightly together where no light enters, and old air stales within dead spaces between branches. Everything is brown during the day, or grey when the sun goes down, as stars emerge. That's when he hides from pubescent drinkers, first time lovers. The cave is large, has many naves in which to escape their many eyes and flashlights, their drunken voices and crumpled cans. 2 She is the great romance of his life, the great romantic figure he imagined each year that passed until they met. She leaves him for an older man, and neither understands her reasons. She makes some up to try to please him: he is a weakling, he drinks too much and shouts when drunk. This older man gives her gold chains to wear around her waist and wrists and anklebones. She jingles when they fuck, her ecstasy intense when her older lover gets rough, slaps her face, calls her a cunt, forgets to lubricate, pulls her hair back at the moment when he shakes his sperm out. She learns too late this was how her father loved her in what she once thought were just ugly dreams. 3 He sleeps in stolen army surplus tents, though no rain hits the ground, no wind creeps in. His home is grand, has many rooms, a hard-packed floor of earth and needles with their edges worn. He drinks leftover beers, smokes cigarette butts, salutes teenage boys for their vices. Picks up their empty cans for cash. No one at the soup kitchen knows about his cave. My fortress of solitude, he thinks, and laughs. 4 Seasons change. She finds herself married with two kids, a nice home, a husband who cares as if she were a precious thing -- not gold, not jewel -- but valuable, nonetheless. Her father is dead so long ago now she can pity him, no longer feels the blue flame of her anger. Was that love? Has she known love? Her children -- yes, of course -- but who else? I lust for safety now, she thinks and doesn't tell herself about her other lusts. Those are for therapists -- someday, perhaps. 5 He doesn’t hear a thing until the black after sunset begins to fall. No voices, no heedless scrape of shoes, no lighters flicking, no inhalation, nothing at all except the breathing of someone else almost as furtive. He hides his bottle, turns slowly without sound, each motion planned. He knows about careful. Sees the other, a younger man, a boy he doesn’t know, removing shirt, then pants, then underclothes, The boy doesn’t see him, doesn’t look around. Sighs to himself, moves his hand up and down, back and forth, fast – fast. He stares at this. The light not good but enough to know the form, the line of the boy’s back, the curve of skin so like and unlike what he once loved. He watches it all. He watches too much. 6 She has settled down, the kids in bed the tv off, a book in her hand. Looks up, disturbed. A small pattern of lines coalesce on her forehead. Deep lines and long. The book of poems, Last Poems by Auden, are put down. Something, she knows, something is wrong. The sky rotates in a way she’s not seen, and the air, itself, seems to hiss at her face. Almost, she remembers him. Almost, but then shakes her head, and under the trees, he knows she’s gone.