Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Amateur Again

They allowed a thermostat to come between them. Isolation in a crowd is a sure sign you're onto something! But then frost on the window panes, that reminder that the universe appreciates a pattern, maybe not so much. They pass each other like ghosts in a castle. The rooms were full and still you could see your breath. In the end, it was familiar.

There was a question of how far one should go in the pursuit of salvation and too often it was answered by professors of theology. The prayer that works because it is felt in a deep way and the one that works because it is an engine comprised of words. Family energy was banned at the dinner table. Yet it was precisely her ability to consider what most people would not that allowed her to insist that marriage mattered. Working with bread dough in the dark, curling one's toes against the cold wooden floor. You could hear other bodies working on it as well.

Oh but dreams then were all about leaders, leaders of lost people, and not the people themselves. The house was never as finished as when those inside it longed for one another. The ticking of any clock puts me in mind of Emily Dickinson, that difficult pleasure. A theme of folds taken to illicit extremes. One does want a heart and dismantlement and all of that in their poetry, but first one has to eat, no? So much for gravity in the middle of the night.

But what a blast, holding your hand! He wrote at dawn, numb with joy, an amateur again.

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