Wednesday, March 13, 2013

To Want You The Way I Do

Once blessed, forever blessed? I live in such a way as to privilege - to make holy - indecision. Though later, steaming clams and drinking beer while surf crashed in the distance, it was allowed all around that second thoughts are not a crime. You do look good in that picture.

I stayed up well after midnight, from time to time going down into the basement to check the walls for the tell-tale weeping of spring snow. In other words, coffee. Pigeons fly in and out of the broken barn window and from time to time their feathers sift down to the level of our shoulders. I am not a pronoun and neither are you.

Your Russian accent makes me happy, as accents always do. We stayed up listening to jazz, sad the way you are when you know you are not your favorite's choice. In those days, I wrote poems for everyone, and delivered them with fresh fruit. Some acts are just a way of saying that what happened to the dog still matters.

Whose kingdom is the kitchen? Lately one longs to be worthy of the domesticity so long ago declared irrelevant. I don't want to want you the way I do and yet I do. Thus the mail, thus the long walks in which I wonder do you see what I see?

So the morning passes. So the red wing blackbirds gather at the Dogwood and urge me to a greater fidelity. God is. More and more these days I am coming to accept that all you really need is me to listen.

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