Monday, July 26, 2010

Truth Has A Fierce Burn

Full moon rising well before midnight and at 2 a.m., cresting trees on the western line of the hills. Once blue as dust, now ethereal, still not travelable. The dogs cross the yard and I go inside to make tea.

Sleep these days is fitful, though in a familiar way. As if once I actually did rest. For some reason I think of 91 North, past Burlington, listening to Annie Lenox on the radio, only dimly aware that the future might not be satisfying.

Tea with honey is okay, but I prefer maple syrup - sweeter, darker - like waking up before dawn. When I come back out, tea in hand - the mug from Vermont, your favorite - both dogs are gone and cannot right away be found. Overhead a bat's wings flutter, softly resonant as rain on leaves, and I whistle for them, low and urgent and intent.

I always remember those lines of Jack Gilbert's, how did they go? Something like, The heart never fits the journey - always one ends first. For some reason, I no longer think in terms of lines but rather sentences.

Retrieve a flashlight - the moon is falling, or has fallen - and search the neighbor's yards, the compost, cool hostels at the base of redolent pines. All writing is a recovery effort, a search, but for what? I know the truth has a fierce burn because I always find its ashes.

Forty three years old, alone in the darkness, crying over a lost dog. What else did I think was going to happen?

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