spuytenduyvil

In the recurring dream, Merton in mufti doesn’t expect me here, where the red sun is always diving into the Kentucky nob. I once again give thanks he doesn’t ask my name, the name of his assassin who dares not think of the revolver, or picture it in my pocket, afraid you can read minds. Aware in the dream that I am dreaming this and knowing it will break off where it always leads us. The gun occurs suddenly in my hand, and you on your knees feeling for the brandy bottle under the cot. Saying, “I’m not your father. You have a father.”