The Sleepy Hollow Motel, between the thumb and forefinger of westernmost Gitche Gumee, is where my love and I lie in the innocence of love and the guilt of humankind. We’ve dined on peanut butter and bread and the last few ounces of the Monkey’s Shoulder we brought with us from Washington State (a gift from a Spokane friend, now transformed to emptiness). And now, after making love, we sink into the innocence of sleep, with thoughts of Bob Dylan’s childhood home in the hills of old Duluth, regretting not visiting the typewriters of the Hunker Bunker and Mr and Mrs Peterson on the other side of the bridge. We wish them well and travel on in innocence and guilt to seek the next horizon.

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