Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Perforating Darkness Without You

How slowly I walk in October. This October.

How soft the brook sounds, like leaves falling, a murmur.

Just because a certain wilderness is familiar does not mean I want to walk through it. How many nights must I gaze up at the Big Dipper - its vast ladle, perforating darkness - without you?

In the morning I make coffee. In the morning I write.

A falling star just shy of the old homestead. Scent of apples. Hay bales. Would you hand fit in mine?

I cannot bear tenderness.

And the night winds go out farther than before and come back. The bear grows sluggish, the space between its thoughts like a liquid.

The welter of women no longer confusing, just one sign of loneliness, one sign of willingness. I read carefully what you write. I am sad to see you go.

The sentences float like dandelion seeds, from God to God. I can say that now. As open as the pine cones whistling down from the sky.

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