I thought you, fishing a limit, walking home in chert-dust dark catching your boot-toe every rut or so. That log road deeds the creek to us. It’s alright. I thought it, running water or wind in the scrub oak. If widow moon, then dog years, the way you walk down, your hat set for traveling, dreaming backward like paper lace in the same Summer rain. Hardly a day goes by. Hardly a far field, feldspar flecked in sandstone when sparrows fall out of the creek. I thought you coming home for a cold mattress and folly playing feet in the current, eddying along the clay path between me and the rumpled painter’s hat you wore. Not pinebox. The campfire and the map you wouldn’t stop drawing.

ANDREW WELLS is from Piedmont, AL. He currently lives in Iowa City, IA, where he is a student at the Writers’ Workshop. A couple of his poems have been published in Forklift, Ohio.