It is not so hard to find words. Clouds are never behind the moon. The work is simply attention. As in, I woke with a sinus headache and didn't want to walk or anything.
Well, Jesus is happy to listen, happy to instruct. My son wears his mother's watch and writes poetry about birds. Old library cards, tattered ribbons and a gaudy plastic ring I would have loved as a child. Give me a real sign, won't you?
Don't you love the new advertisement for salvation? After a while, one rejects altogether the concept of communication. We are never what we seem to be and yet not another thing entirely. The important arguments are always personal, always just beginning.
I pissed out by the wood shed, studying constellations in the November sky, working and reworking how the first line might go. Am I asking you for more than you can give just now? Wordlessness is all our ends. As a dog barks and farther away, one answers.
If I could, I would hold you just long enough to let you know it's all okay or will be. Then later, over coffee, consider Dickinson's aversion to titles. Perhaps there is only ever one poem and we are it and writing it even now? He said as the sun rose, wondering where you were and what you were doing and with whom.
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