We walk up Sam Hill, the opposite direction of sap, stopping to scratch the oily wool of D.'s Shetlands. Poplar leaves make a scratchy sound as they precede the breeze across crusty snow. Pale blond carapace, unwound cigar, slippery blank papyrus on which my little poems are pressed! Without ballast, spiritual or otherwise, we topple.
As without metaphor we founder. Those who argue that deconstruction is a train you can't take to the end misunderstand the altar inherent in any paradox. There is a certain motel in Vermont overlooking a certain valley to the east and a certain bakery (that sells wine) less than three tenths of a mile away. Fumbling at twilight, happy whispers opening to undulating quietude, one shoulder brushing softly along the other's.
What is natural goes unhindered forever. The back fence leans, saliva hisses in fire, and whiskey accompanies almost every lie I've ever told. The sentences are a comfort until you need something else, and then they are that. It's true I am the next cardinal you see, itself a kind of kiss.
He sat in the corner writing, bound by grace to avoid the worst of his inclinations. One dreams of women and wakes tired, wishing the requisite psychic travel would end. Your hand soft, slow, and the fall of your hair muffling my cries, and after a long sleep, the one I seem bent on avoiding. Prayer redounds to all our benefit, one way or the other.
Complicity means risk and thus begs clarity. In summer I sleep outside. One wakes early to practice a certain dance, the steps to which change almost daily. I mean allowances, invitations, fusty blankets, and hoarse owls.
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