The red bird, reminding me as always of your attendance. This borrowed body, this mountainous mind, this Kingdom of air. We can't say goodbye and that is why these poems so often mention coffee.
The barn was streaked with last night's rain. You woke too and helped me find the door. Recollected thunder still echoes in the sentence I wrote about it.
Your new camera, my Parisian fantasy. What we forget - choose not to remember - is that each step makes possible the next. We're not going anywhere - because there is not there there - but still.
This fabric of language across the architecture of one's bones. Sound has many dimensions. It's obvious, the way a calendar is not.
We'll laugh our way to Golgotha then. I took notes knowing full well the novel they imagined had already been written and judged a success. Dreams of oxen, dreams of tea.
Willingness - which is openness - is itself healing. We are called to a memory of rain by a single drop of water on an otherwise not-witnessed clover. Against the multitudinous clamoring, a single voice, a simple message.
And yes, I fall weeping. For you I fall to my knees.
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