Monday, August 29, 2011

Trains in Holland

You were wrong about that preponderance of crows line. I remembered it driving down route 112, yawning and wondering what the day was going to bring. All I can say is that plastic lawn chairs serve the same purpose as chickens. A dream of Rembrandt, a dream of John Denver. Your macro is my spiritual practice.

We stepped outside and found a dollar bill. The attachment to certain stones is no better than another. What you have a hard time with is the fact that all of this is unreal - there's no part of it to be saved. Rips in the screen are letting in bugs. The trains in Holland are full of dreamers.

Manifest a bottle of wine, a circle of friends, a small fire, famous songs. Between backstage and performance - what is that space and why does one savor it? Shades of mackerel, shades of blue. The wheelbarrow upended against the maple tree I keep meaning to cut. We could raise lambs, we could sell wild mourning doves.

The back fence repeated itself. It is my experience that the more attention one pays to dreams, the more likely one is to discover the seams through which God pours a mercurial light. Not confession so much as a 1970's camper rusting behind the barn. Spiders do indeed have surnames. Our guide had feet that resembled weathered saddles and a smile so insistent it delivered us to the Lord.

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