Saturday, February 22, 2014

The Secret Hiding In Soft Sighs After

Ice sliding off the eaves holds back the morning light and so my bedroom feels like a kind of cave (but not Plato's cave). The black bra strap nearly did it sweetheart but the subsequent references to ice only reminded me of our vow. On the wall, prisms elongate and slide and the shadow of the cross grows thin and wavy. Thus this, this way.

One begins to appreciate the illusory nature of accomplishment without quite being ready to change the way they live. How happy I am when you sleep beside me, dreams above your brow like a soft rusting light. Who studies the moon in all its phases studies God but may or may not know it. Desire is an impediment because it implies - argues quite forcefully actually - that we do not already have everything.

Tea to ward off a pending head cold, hours of poor sleep, and an odd obsession with J.W.'s comment decades ago about good years for icicles. Elongate and slide until they are gone, or are only remembered, or return to merely potential. How sad I am after two years of studying Bohm to learn that I was wrong! Well, we can wander a long time in the forest without quite coming to a clearing suitable for naps.

Suitable for making love I mean, which in the forest without blankets always owns a particular heat and intensity. Who comes in the presence of bluets and birch trees sees creation from inside - with eyes that see and ears that hear - and thus understands the secret hiding in soft sighs after. Yet even that joy passes, as stars appear to wheel steadily through the darkness, and one accepts the joyous paradox inherent in talking to chickadees. Not yet, but soon.

For a long time whiskey helped, then prayer, then a sort of reckless lust and now I just want to write in the presence of trees without a woman. Gifts given and not received - not accepted really - are given again which removes the pressure of ever getting it "right." Kiss me because I want that and tell me what touch makes you forget even the idea of the past. He wrote happily, laying up sentences like firewood in winter, hoping they would warm her too.

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