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Backwoods

I've forgotten the specifics of the acquisition
and have tried to forget the players
from so long ago
but they return
more often than I like
sometimes on cold, wet afternoons like this
lifting their heads, staring back at me
through the patterns of snow on the glass.
The patterns along which I'm now paddling a canoe.
Trying to escape this wet afternoon.
Trying to edit them out of the script.
Perhaps there'll be a fork in the river.
Like the one in the movie last night on cable
that carried Billy Bob Thornton into a hollow
filled with fried catfish
and junked cars
and Harry Dean Stanton on guitar
backing Lisa Blount in a white cotton dress
whose hollers
continue to echo.