In between reps, poetry. Only after we had stopped to observe the wrecked body of the field mouse and moved on did it occur to him that his emotional reaction was largely neutral. As horror recedes, we get a clearer look at guilt. What I'm saying is, this thing we do, it works. Like that.
Six, seven, eight, a life. The illusion of time persists, attested to by all these deaths. Though earlier, stepping outside to pee with the dog, one noticed a silence that was lovely, encompassing, holy. Sanctification precedes all walks. You want to sit by but can't quite stop and so you just write it: sitting by.
Students who savor Dickinson get a different sort of attention which signifies the ongoing struggle to stop trying to discover the eternal. Buddha chuckles, Jesus tickles him in the ribs. I who lift weights and eat a clove of raw garlic a day hereby testify that I shall not stumble on the sacred trail! Though I do want to be a wise janitor at a school for the newly-awakened. You see?
In my dream, you urged me to keep writing in a very specific way and your husband said no, don't bother, and I just sat there thinking you were both very beautiful in different ways. This all happened in a poem by Wallace Stevens. Who isn't trying to sort through the tyranny of order for the freedom promised - dimly of course - beyond? Last night's pizza was especially delicious, especially the pesto which we made together this summer. I mean like that - together - you see?
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