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5.29.23

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When I think of the years he drank, the scars on his chin, his thinning hair, his eye that still weeps decades after the blow, my knees weaken with gratitude for whatever kept him safe, whatever stopped the glass from cracking and shearing something vital, the fist from lowering, exploding an artery, pressing the clot of blood toward the back of his brain. Now, he sits calmly on the couch, reading, refusing to wear the glasses I bought him, holding the open book at arm’s length from his chest. Behind him the windows are smoky with mist and the tile floor is pushing its night chill up through the bare soles of his feet. I like to think he survived in order to find me, in order to arrive here, sober, tired from a long night of tongues and hands and thighs, music on the radio, coffee– so he could look up and see me, standing in the kitchen in his torn t-shirt, the hem of it brushing my knees, but I know it’s only luck that brought him here, luck and a love that had nothing to do with me, except that this is what we sometimes get if we live long enough, if we are patient with our lives.

“Music in the Morning”, Dorianne Laux

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Peru

Thomas Hoepker, 1962

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A forest

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He Cong

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More rain.

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2023年8月　オオチャバネセセリ

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2023年8月　キイトトンボ

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Leaf Insect, Rome 2021

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Gabriela Ferreira

You're my protector

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Marilyn Stafford

Children strike a pose

Cité Lesage Bullourde, Paris c. 1950

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Maroesjka Lavigne

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釧路へ

©︎ Masakazu Chiba

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alone

@burtoo

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by Jan Bogaerts