A night of rain such that one awakens at 6:30 to a kind of darkness. There is so much to do it seems - or at least a choice to make - the perception of which is a burden.
If we censored nothing, then what? Photographs arrive and one studies them a long time in the welter of desire. It is seasonal perhaps, or obligatory.
Water boils for tea (for her) and coffee perks (for him) and the house is quiet a little while longer. The first touch is sweetest but rarely satisfying. Thus praise, thus this.
One accepts a band of sorrow. It is a kind of arrogance to say one's sentences rarely mean what others think they mean. A belt that is heavy, that weighs you down as you cross a dark plains.
Behind the clouds, the sun, and behind the sun more space which means more stories. Awakening is a question of letting go, mostly, hence its difficulty. Ghazals now.
Ceramic vats of sauerkraut on the counter. Service extends even to what the mind deems illicit. I have begun to root for the front yard zinnias, stubbornly insisting on red.
On blood? Across many miles she shows so much and no more and one wonders, one does.
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