Your Inscape is Your Sanctity

Have you given up? How many letters have I written and received with that underlying yet unspoken premise?

When I walk in the rainy forest I do not remember what I am always trying to forget. We cannot think our way through anything really.

When God made me he left a bird-shaped hole near where my heart is. Do not question what leads to such a beautiful exile.

At midnight laughing, at 4 a.m. with the dog outside, and always exploring the limits of wordlessness. Some edges you fall over and some you are lifted as if by mysterious winds and you wonder why you waited so long to say yes.

I removed my shirt for her, mortally tired, thinking of bees in gardens near dusk, and what happiness I know at such odd – such unanticipated – moments and why it so rarely involves other people. What is the meaning of the sleep for which I long?

I remember bus stations near Cleveland, a hotel in Saint Louis where I first dreamed the dream of you, and all the books I have stolen and lost over the years. Lust is just another form of fear which is why at last I can walk away.

Avoiding the guitar means what voice is now going unheard? We splash through cold puddles, we go all the way to the feeder pond where geese float nervously, and I see again my conflicting propensities for intrusion and celebration.

Go without goals! The idea you are broken – whatever form your brokenness takes – is merely an evasion of your longing to bear love to love.

I whispered after “you are are never getting rid of me” and she laughed and said “it's not up to you though is it” and I knew at last I was home if I wanted to be. Daffodils in a vase, pansies lined up beside the garden, chickpeas soaking in a pot, and poems, always poems.

Oh but the positive element of light is never lacking even though we can be painfully – almost masochistically - inattentive. Your inscape is your sanctity, child, so be not afraid.