The possibility of a nomadic life had onced appeared real. In the desert, one finds keys, even old window frames. Yet jazz remained an instructive mode, one that allowed us to appreciate evolution. No rock unturned, no snake not reviled.
Oh you and your habit of planting things in winter so they'll sprout anew in Spring. What kind of breakfast did they eat when they had to go kill horses? We stayed up and watched the moon and listened to the wind and in our dreams that night a thousand glittering streamers fell from the skies, gifts from a ravenous God. You like hills?
I remember in particular the poems I did not write. In New Hampshire, near the coast, a woman tries in vain to dissemble identity in time for her wedding. The heart is always in motion, meaning that we are driven by a longing to which we only rarely put a name. Call them psalms and get on with it.
Whoa! Once trust was raised as an issue we began to fall apart, telling lies all over the place, as if undoing the foundation - whatever that meant - was a sound objective. A found objective? This one, for example, was created aside a Poinsetta plant while a couple of cats snored noisily beside a hissing stove.
But then love does have a way of rendering us all visible, doesn't it? Jesus comes in, asking if I'd just undo this one sentence for him. You don't have to consider death if you don't want to. I am here, for example, and so are you, and that might be enough.