Who hears me - and hears me call - is never foolish. The question is always the mode. Or rather, what it is for?
Hummingbirds, fireflies. At 4 a.m., rabbits dash back and forth through gardens and pasture, driving the dog mad. I make coffee and sit at the old table under the maples, watching stars fade, feeling nothing in particular, and okay about it.
I picture highways bright with sun, not crowded, distant hills, maybe even ponds. He wonders who will bring a smile to her face and how long it will last and will she think of him at any point? Call me when you come as far as far East as the Hudson river, okay?
A kiss is a type of spiral, a type of immortality. One admires the muscles that compose the shoulder and longs for the respite it seems to offer. And listens: and recalls a voice not heard in many months.
Find a way to say: yes. Soon I will travel north to write in a motel, alone with multiple texts, given only to silence and long walks (and maybe - probably - whiskey) and yet more writing. Who shares the bottle, shares the depths, willingly.
I remember summer nights by the lake, swimming out to the moon, how our laughter carried over the water. I have been dreaming of you since I came here and now we are so close and yet . . . What does Jesus say in John's Gospel, that bit about abide in me as I abide in you?
Who longs loves, and who loves is never foolish. Be my abode, as I will be yours, however briefly - however sweetly - in this vale of scarcity and fear.