From A Spell Called Home
29.
Without meaning to we spent the whole day with a poet I'd heard whispers of last winter, its mild winds melting quickly into the lakes and coming back up as light. It was coffee to see if he wanted to sublet our spare room. We walked to the apartment—tears at the sight, quick regret for a quick decision—a beer to settle the humors, a new book of poems with a tarot series like the one I am trying to write but better, as everything is when you find it in the world having nothing to do with you.