In the afternoon, a gibbous moon rises where the hills are steepest, and I watch it while writing, intent on finding the blue sky behind it. A healed mind takes no thought for the future.
Wittgenstein beckons, as Barthes once did, and before that Gibran. As the story goes, one does not have to wander far for love.
We light candles against the cold and bring out more blankets. Your kiss owns the tenor of Dickinson's later letters.
Digging graves at Center Cemetery when I was fifteen was an early - and subsequently notated - experience of no-mind. Is it time at last to throw away Grandma's letters?
The past organizes us and we are disfigured accordingly. Yet I remember the minty smell of your truck, and how we did not talk for nearly all of New Jersey, just smoked and thought about how we would explain things when we finally got home.
Seen just so, deer tracks are a narrative in which the observer is helpfully - and essentially - implicated. As many yeses as possible please.
The function of sentences is. All my beloved crows, not nearly as frightened of intimacy as I once insisted.
Though I can no longer remember her name, I remember walking with her in Dublin on Bloomsday '89 and crying a little when she bought me a rose. Fox tracks up to - but stopping shy of - the hen house.
End-of-the-day sunlight glows in curtains my wife's mother made for us years ago. The tea grows cold in a chipped cerulean mug, as lovely as Picasso's blue nude.
Old photographs curling at the edges are no longer useful for the echolocating self. As movement is neither toward nor away and one travels and travels and never arrives.
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