Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Singing The Correct Song

Soldiers? I woke up under the impression that one is supposed to give and not receive. What followed me into the field then, nagging in a quiet - no, an unspoken - way? Later, drinking tea, stars glittered overhead exactly as they would have if I had made them. Well, love does and then is.

Yet peace remains elusive. The past and future are but constructs used to hammer the present into submission. Poetry is rarely any help but it does pass the time. I did it again! He wrote he wrote.

But later watching the horses, the man without shoes felt calm, sure that the world would end in love. A dream of lilies, a dream of a sad mother whom everyone had to protect. Are we singing the correct song yet? One believes that to remain incomplete is itself sacred.

In other words, there is something in longing that completes us even without satisfaction. I miss the old telephones that kept you locked in place, like a dog on a leash. Every so-called advance since has been marked by secrecy. You write, I'll open the mail. They are out there in the distance, weary and footsore, and we are going to have to figure out how to love them.

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