An Inventory

A tablespoon of the blue fertilizer at each plant's roots, a gallon
of water sprayed through the nozzle that cost $5.97, the hose
that cost $14.99, today marks day three of shavelessness + when
the dog barks more than twice I believe something could be at
the door. The next cup of coffee, the back-up pair of sunglasses
since the old ones were sat on a few times then finally lost + days
may be arbitrary—a June Monday, a Friday in October—but they
add up: if I went back 1000 of them I'd still never buy an umbrella
so as to be kissed by uncountable lips of rain, would still scrimp
on meals to afford better gulps of beer, would forever let those
who walked away walk away + would ever choose to not see them
walking back + at the resort days after my wife'd become my wife
the groundskeeper—Ramon, good for a bilingual headnod of hello
would grab a large dark crow in each hand, the flappy lamed ones
which'd out of greed or daredevilry alighted on the grill beside
sauteeing onions + stacks of prefab burgers we didn't even need
to pay for, they were just there waiting for our hunger like pews
ready every hour for a penitent's hush, I watched him do this twice,
a bird in each hand, him walking off, fingers wrapped around dark
half-maimed flight, this was 8760 hours ago which is a year of hours
+ since then in order: hot, fucking hot, that's better, cooler, cold,
snow, ice, fucking ice, not too bad, cold again, too hot, now today.
Sun like a long-promised wish granted, breeze + we may or may not
suddenly owe more taxes, my still-new-but-less-so wife + I, may
have gotten lost in calculation, counted something twice, given
ourselves more credit than is recognized by the state of Indiana +
maybe we go broke because math is one more unbroken horse
we'll never learn to tame. There are so many stories. The lilac
against the back deck seemed dead for weeks, wilty as a desultory
teen then poof, all purple and that scent that's only lilac in the exact
same way my wife's skin only smells like my wife's skin as I hold
her wrist to my face without listening to her watch tick without
counting any of the seconds making their incessant way
through us like wind through a bird's wings, like air in its bones.
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Weston Cutter
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Weston Cutter

Floating Wolf Quarterly Cover_wolf