Is it safe to talk about the pheasants this way this time? One lives with difficulty between so many secrets, such radiant light and the always shifting extremes of silence. Our hunger for God is not God though one wonders, doesn't one.
When, I wonder, will the word scavenger enter? Ribs of horses, the repetition of lust. One ascends the tendril ladder, one is forever looking back.
Remember that night in Austin when you draped your socks - unexpectedly, even (looking back) boldly - across the chair where I wrote and in the morning I thanked you for bringing poetry back to me and . . . She comes wearing a ragged brown sweater, reminding me of a cemetery in upstate New York. Endings, always endings.
Yet the other night while out walking I felt again the quiet joy that from time to time attends all travelers. Passing the sign to Memphis and deciding this time no. Photographs help, and whiskey sometimes too.
The forsaken beckon and the lost croon and we stand in spindly grass just off the road home, falling again for the same old pain. Take this heart and don't return it, not even when she asks. In other words, what is this you and I?
Recalling old dogs - and exhausted from so much shoveling - I fall weeping. When he said whiskey what he meant was Jasmine tea. When it comes to you you want to say no . . .
It has to do with how they move together in bracken, how seeing them consoles an antediluvian loneliness. As in, if you tell me you read this, then yes.
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