What if loss were actually possible, if the hungry really did want for food? As long ago one lingered near the old fire pond, watching heron stalk the shallows for frogs.
If you listen you can hear the sea was a lie, wasn’t it. Writing poems in crayon with my non-dominant hand, yes in fact it has come to this, why do you ask.
The lonely insomniac writes yet another sentence from the campy void to which his worship has led him. Later the basement will flood, snakes will writhe and die, and we will intensify our study of regret.
No stars, no moon but still clearly sky. One lays a long time in the darkness longing to be touched, eventually feels their body calcify and turn to dust and then the cosmos.
Wind coming down the valley and the river rising past the pasture. I had a dream, now I have a cup of coffee.
I remember sitting alone with my father as he died, wishing it was already over. The Man without Shoes coveted shoes, the problem was never shoes or their absence but rather covetousness, now can we begin?
I remember the last time I saw the Beast, how sad he looked, how heavy was – how heavy always is – the self-selected burden. Have you tried John Denver songs, John Denver songs are nice.
Imagine opening your arms to the world, imagine laying no condition on who can meet you in that well-lit circle. A long drive into the city where too many people I love have died.
The envelope has no other function than to travel bearing a message. The parabolic enterprise a mind indulges.
Watching her sleep, losing all sense of time and space, the whole culture dissolving in the gentle flow of air through her body. Nobody says “amen” anymore, nobody looks for the angels.