To leave you at the lake of the mountain because things will never be the same and you want to be alone, leave me alone you say with your bait your tackle your little blue boat to row yourself into open or shade depending on the time of day, on the sun, on its leanings, on the year. when wind from the west fish bite best bite best, salt is heavier, you are gone, smoke hovers close to the ground, and blood that is blue is blue just beneath and the blueblood ox bellows a bit, wades flankdeep, ditch and pond at the ribs, the violet leather a suck sleek. the blueblood ox aches and when the drawers where you kept your leather things catch rain is coming, salt is heavier, sun rises red.

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