An ache in the left shoulder, numbness radiating down the whole right arm, and all before the sun rose through rainy clouds. So little was held in reserve as always. And when the arrow couldn’t be found after, well . . .
He felt the process of pixilation as it happened, his smile literally grafted away from his face, until nothing was left but thin trails of smoke. A longing for tropical fruit whose moral components could no longer be avoided. And sadness – whenever he wrote about anger a whisper somewhere suggested instead he try sadness.
He felt his way from abundance. An ice storm, litter, a long painful flight. They were better questions than the answers indicated.
I looked North, as always on these mornings when the coffee refused or wasn’t blessed and so my “spirits” simply bumped along, bruisey and roughened. She moved on to spiders, a redirect of some kind that confused me. A barn wall adorned with antiques indicating what now.
Forward friends, the deluge awaits us all. Her brief note brimmed with similar sadness but curiously deviated from the well of expectation. Must I sleep on the fulcrum again, the blanket stapled to my chin?
Nobody wears green eyeshadow to department stores anymore. Finding the right guy – who says I didn’t? He wrote, he allowed himself that the one act of generosity.
I felt you all over my body with no potential for grace. A familiar dream blurred by chalk, embers, embarrassing references to love.