* Passing a night in September 1 His head aches. Little moths fritter in flight beneath the light, too small to matter much, & the distance is great from one side of the bedroom to where she sits, reading her book, the calm of a storm. He sneaks a glance her direction, in rhythm with the clock on the bedstand. The slow pulse of pain in blocked sinuses, a counterpoint to his thoughts. 2 The moths absented themselves (so he hopes) when he dimmed the lights. A fly crawls on screen, the football game's on, but he's stopped listening. For her, sleep came an hour ago. She softly snores. Someone he doesn't care for is winning. 3 The book is bent open along its spine. Page 223, the chapter on the line as it relates to the sentence. How syntax creates tension, moving from one clause to the next, for one's readers. The milk by his bed is forgotten, & warms until the taste is intensified beyond drinking. He closes the book without enclosing her bookmark. 4 When she awakes, her eyes see a flutter of blue lights, and then some that are brighter, yellows and reds flashing. He's rolled over to his side, pulled all the covers away leaving the cool of the room's air to bring her back from her dreams. She stumbles in rising, half-grey, half a mixture of rainbows, & lifting her hand, finds the remote's power button. A click heard by them both. 5 On the opposite wall, up by the ceiling, moths are waiting in dark shade, ever patient. They have faith that the light will return in the morning. No one else rests easily. The night's temperatures are too varied, colors too few, tastes too sour in their mouths. No children smell sweet to lessen their feelings, smother bitters with fruit.

* 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.

* Meditation on Zoloft, Concerta, Caterwaul & Congruent Caterwaul. I had to look it up just like congruent. That's the beauty of net dictionaries. They coincide with all my lapses in memory. Discordant sound and correspond or coincide. So I don't forget the point, those were the meanings I found. So, to keep it straight, my daughter's screeching coincides with the coming of evening. That's why she's medicated. Or is it? Forgive me. I'm losing focus. No, her medication is given to help her focus at school, to broaden attention spans, to keep the sentence going, (to use an example, i.e., to speak figuratively) though to change the subject back to the literal, we have nothing for her screeching. Nor anything for mine. Though I no longer caterwaul, our moods are congruent . She is anxious, and I am fearful. She is manic, and I excitable. She is not happy (so she tells me) but I won't go there. It's too early, but don't worry. We've both swallowed our pills, changed the scenery. She's focused and I have this -- serenity -- for the next 12 hours, or so they tell me.