(Note: For those of you who have enjoyed the past two days, we suggest you return for another by the same writer on Monday–The Eds.)

and when you pulled that guitar off the wall, what did you know of callousness or of evening hillsides soaked in shadows with silence buried beneath? we saw each other one time on honey earth, in neon buzz with September stars just hanging over our heads. I knew all the words just about and you did, too. blue light mornings and coffee. fractal breath. what will take root here in the body of your work? and I’m left just bluestem and duckweed, game trail and stillness. what is your name, gray sky? who is this in me again? this present moment is a cold stream poured over stone and mud. my reflection is all distorted and for a second, I am you and you are standing under the elm tree saying something I can’t hear. just take this time and space for yourself. it’s not bullshit to feel sad.

Eric Huff

Recognition

by the time it was over the rain had started in earnest. from the window I watched as the sky broke into pieces like a shattered mirror. the violence sudden and then just a moment where we recognize these empty spaces. you saw this in me, too, I think. we both were standing in the river again, just about up to our bare knees. I told you this is the only way I know how to heal myself because I didn’t want to admit to each time I’ve leaned over the guardrails just hoping to catch myself in the movement of that breath, one and then another. you were a shade tree, the name of which you didn’t know, didn’t need to know. you called spirit into that room. you held my breath as your dog pulled against its leash. with wide eyes you saw me. you saw me standing there waiting for the torrents of rain to stop, for it to ease up some.

Eric Huff

(image is of the poet)