Eschatology
There were lies about returning and we imagined the sorrow of coming back not as we were but something like a tree bark bound axe haunted rooted and seeing through florescence lovers carving their names in scars or come out of tapestry from threads left over from a hunting scene a distant figure in Carpaccio hard to pick out from a meadow for brocade maybe awakening in a room entirely bouquets one wall see through of lace and glass and Nantucket just beyond a wilderness reduced to a last line of bare trees cars moving among them like deer Or how it really happened no coming back at all just waiting like a voice above a page not even a face on water having expected joy like a horse seeing the ocean and a beach after years of grass in a small fenced acre in Kansas