AS FOR THAT PIECE OF SUNDOWN YOU’VE BEEN WANTING by Carl Phillips
Like little forges for which the heart too often gets mistaken, the dogs run ahead of me, just out of earshot, across what’s a field, and then a coast: some stones, some sand. Funny how sorrow more often arrives before honesty, than the other way around. To my left a blackness
like the past, but without the past’s precision; to my right, the ocean…Not so lost as I’d been thinking, then—or had once, admittedly, maybe even hoped for. Kingdom of what’s left, still to be angry at, or forgive. All of the bees flying out of me. We’re traveling north.