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here it is always dusk. the july air is a thick blanket of mosquitos. blueberries blister from the earth. salmonberries taste like sugar water and childhood. we call those orbed guords watermelon berries, for obvious reasons. whittier is a sleepy relic of the cold war. rumor has it there is an underground tunnel veining its way to girdwood. rumor has it that it closed after the ghost of a boy descended and never returned. the moose, with their tired knees, cannot make the steep mountain descent. here it is cold in the way only summers can be: wet. a moving stream, glaciermelt, something both ending and beginning again. a westfalia: rustorange, beadseated, putters like a heavy chest. ribbons its way through the longest highway tunnel in north america. i watch the marbled sun disappear behind the ringstain of mountains, a long shadow called night. here i have brought all my baggage: kerouac and ivory coated dreams. here i learn how to peel shrimp. love a girl who loves another boy across a whole sea. i mean that each day the sky shows me a new kind of grey. i mean that there are infinite ways to use our hands. i mean that we can still be full of emptiness.