A Bluet Grasp of the Sensuous Truth

You know how dear Jonathan Edwards remains to me, yes? One lingers inside eighteenth century mailsacks with all the other yellowing letters composed in part with Isenglass. Snowflakes are secrets loosening meaning in slow-sifting veils one has to study closely to see. We will hold hands and walk out to where the low surf reaches our ankles and stand a long time before the meaningless empty horizon.

How wretched one becomes when they cannot burn their maps nor take a step alone across the ash. The hill was there for ten thousand years and I walked across it in a day, helped in part by a red umbrella. Breathe me into the insight you are. Word comes from Gettysburg, a mellifluous yes, a canyon filled with crystalline blunderbusses.

Fear no winter so long as I can still cut wood. I learned how to hunt and fish, and how to start a fire, but lessons about cars and tractors sailed through my brain August thirty-first. A bluet grasp of the sensuous truth? You fill me from midnight to moon.

I am as always reduced to words. Take no compass for a teacher and ignore the trains at 4 a.m.! Pulling a curtain aside to see stars at night as all undressing reveals the light in which longing goes homeless a long time happy. Fold of you enfolding me an Irish dawn unfolding.

Balloons to the south reduce me to tears. No lunch but how slow our fingers go touching under the table. Yet later in the shade one insists on cheese. A weighty loss redeemed in slumber, consenting at last to sleep.