He leans his forehead against a tree and a little smoke rises but you have to look closely to see it. We picked blueberries out there many many years ago. Can we work the word silver into the poem? Nobody listens anymore. Or that's how it seems, drunk with wine, playing Thelonious Monk records.
We are not separate from our living space. There is no need to be both giver and receiver, which is why we favor one role over the other. The horse looked up and it was easy to believe he was grateful for the change in circumstances. I am as always in the middle of things. One wants a kiss despite their age.
And cloudless skies. Complicated rhythms that seem to require keeping joy at arm's length. Can we listen to the radio then? Blades of grass spackled with vomit and drops of dried blood. That's the whole picture and it's very interesting.
Nobody listens because nobody believes they can anymore. We walked the fence line slowly, repairing barbed wire, and talking about our friendship which had endured a great deal but seemed finally to be broaching a real breaking point. Ah, my old heart, how you quiver and sing! She drew the curtains and turned to the bed, her hair falling on her shoulder in a way that made me wish I had taken up painting. Longing scales the invisible ladder and waits for us up high between the stars.
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