If forgiveness was forbidden, nothing would be different.
Everything would age at the same rate. The end would still
be always in the mail and the river ice not thick enough to
cross at night to the other shore, full moon on ice in spite
of the fact that forgetfulness has been taken out and shot.
The relentless past. Listen, let’s go for a ride somewhere
up, away from the river. The keys are wherever I lost them.
Blood hounds howling. Did you ever let them catch you?
Just bring the bottle; leave the rest behind as evidence.
What is a life but a litany of chances to fuck up?