Frankfort

This one is just a free write for now, more of a list than a poem, but let me know if you see anything worth keeping.

It was comfortable, in your
robins egg blue shack, speckled
dirty, nesting in a tiny
hollow, between the cliffs.

It was always too hot, or too cold,
or it leaked when it rained,
but really the bed was warm
and it felt like home .

One night a landslide took
the yards on the big houses,
but we were safe,
and walked
down the road
to the Cliffside Diner
for milkshakes thick
as air off the river.

Later, you played guitar in an
old camp chair while
the mosquitos bit my ankles.

All summer you dug postholes
and I held the level

secretly dreaming we
were building—we were balancing
a life together.