[Day 3: 350]

I walked up the hill and then down again, retracing the same steps. 

I was trying to know something inside myself that left no visible markers. I was trying to look

inside the self, inside the inside of the self.

The metaphors are insufficient: a winding corridor, a series of basement rooms, each one

smaller and more cramped than the last. 

A dark well, unfathomable.

A moment of panic — intense, fleeting — when I think you are not coming back

Or is it fight or flight

The poets all know each other. They circle around, pair off. 

In a dream, you showed me a series of powerpoint slides, describing your expertise.

“I’ll show you how,” you said then spent the rest of the time we had together bundling branches.

The room was filled with branches. The room became a tree. You became the tree. I sat beneath. I sat and lived and died beneath the tree that was once you. 

The poets threw a party. They swam in the ocean. They took photos of themselves swimming. 

Someone I once loved wrote a love poem to someone else. Have I been replaced? 

At the bottom of the hill, I counted my steps — from the corner to the parking lot and back. I turned around and climbed back up. 

The heart, unfathomable. 

We stood on the hill looking down over ruins. The worn stone marking a time we could only imagine, human in its specificity. How to describe these ruins. 

There is a movie we saw that I can no longer remember much about except this: At the end, the man fastens himself beneath a truck, so that when the truck is driven he will be dragged along the pavement. We see the truck speeding down the highway. We see the dark streak it leaves behind. 

How long will it drive.

A room inside a room inside a room. Space collapsing on itself. A self collapsing from the inside. Without instinct for survival. Or overcoming it. 

I found myself saying, “I want to reassure you,” but I did not know whether I meant it. We were both silent for a while. And then we left.