Remembering St. Peter's Abbey

I notice a dead spot when I meet a face known so intensely years ago. The windmill at St. Pete’s, the crossroads and grid, god-damned chickadees massed like avengers over the graveyard path. Back and to the right, the junkyard, sweet enough for me in ’98 or so, my outdoor office there.

By dead I mean I mean looked-out (maybe lucked out)--something so burned into perception that I shy away from more of it.

Idea attributed to F.G. Lorca, who pinned

a version to his door:

book a sheet of curling 

for those who had never curled,

never split the house,

never hit.  

Lorca showed up in time to join

old-timers hockey in Leroy

Tuesday and Friday mornings in Leroy

10:00 for an hour and half

because the ice here’s no good.

Everybody behaves himself?

Oh, you betcha.

We all know each other.

Where I walked, I'd walked before.