Clearing Fences
we sip chilled wine on a deck-like terrace
in autumn sunlight’s failing warmth
in the distance the low rumble of the falls
a light lunch
we’ve not seen each other in months
we’re ‘mending fences’
“Questions make bad poems,” she says
as if writing on a chalkboard
I listen for recurrence of old arguments
today they’re just shadows
She reads me one of hers
a startling piece with no answers
a rush of certainties in crisp description
I’ve not brought any of mine
and don’t memorize
she chuckles, winning a contest I’ve not entered
“Read or be read,” she says, mocking me
I brush away memories of old strands of argument
about texts that read us until we can read them
they’re tired fish resting in shallows
before driving on upstream to spawn
I make no comment
she smirks, thinking neither is no option
more mockery
when everything is worthy
sometimes there is no saying
even her bronzed praises
of surfaces. of nothing.
The Dog Star 
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