When you are not here - where I am - I notice. One longs to extend, to make an offering. There is so much you forget when faced with a beautiful woman! Call me stupid, Ishmael.
While earlier beneath stars I reconsidered the whole of civilization and also the necessity of apology. One gets good at what one does often. Time must matter or we wouldn't be so focused on it, yes? And later, a sense of sharing, an opening of language into what is new, and continues new.
Coffee, bells, buckshot and the bones of birds. In the museum I always lingered by the stones laid out in rows, astounded at what colors the earth bore to us, sentience or willingness be damned. What else would you call love? Cezanne, of course.
Say it again in that voice that even in my dreams is clipped and soft, reminiscent of fields I have not yet seen but will, or must. It's all good is another way of saying it's not and never can be. Flat surfaces yield up any number of directions. We end and life somehow goes on.
Roll on Columbia. Any word of Vermont is welcome, even if it's going to break my heart. I remember as a child contemplating the sky while thunder boomed in distant hills and it boiled down - it always did in those days - to punctuation. Tell me please that you read this and I won't stay up by the window, glued to a dozen special stars, and the dark towering pines beyond that always remind me of hunger.
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