Saturday, October 5, 2013

The Northern Forests

A love letter remains a favorite mode and yet it foregrounds the body, the dissolution of which is apparently home to this life's salvation. And yet. Somewhere beside a lake you study the small rocks and think of my cairn. I am always writing, always in love.

Yet sex merely replaces the finer - the ineffable - Love upon which we are all (ostensibly) bent. Sunflowers stagger through the night only to end up in the same garden where they began. A wasp does not study winter. Yesterday I nearly called and who knows what today will ask of me, chirpy fool that I am.

Does a horse know better than you God's will? Mist rolls in gently from the northern forests. The world exists in a rain drop in a dream in a mind in denial. And all the answers can be found in a grasshopper's eye.

My favorite kisses have all been outside, mostly in the presence of birch trees. Yesterday we picked sixty pounds of apples while it rained. My father is dying slowly and I am scared, so scared. Greed sits in its slivered chamber blowing on its cold thin fingers.

My eyes were made that I might see your bare shoulder. My toes were made to remind me I am human. This sentence goes unread. The heart does not break but rather stops and so now what?

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