In Gettysburg One Longs

A rainy landscape lit by fireflies. The dog and I move through it heavy.

One reconsiders Bob Dylan's work ethic, the propensity of the ego to make images and call them reality, and also what is loneliness. Tired boys elicit compassion, don't they.

Wild roses scaling the crabapple beg a camera. How fine a straw hat is when the sun shines, how lovely thunder when you can lower the window.

The feminine you multiplies. I remember driving through southern Vermont alone with coffee idolizing a way of thinking that was at best hurting only me.

Zafus sink in the sea when thrown there. Mostly I am aware of your effort, only sometimes the light to which it aspires.

Supposing the flow of fear were to find a new course, what would change? One can only wait on the mail so long before seeing at last the futility of time.

The brutality of certain crimes? The heart is a muscle charged with a task and mostly needs to be let to do its work.

Childhood was flavored always with "or else." You grow up, or out, or you go on, and what happens next, because.

He memorialized sadness, made loss into a God, because he thought that was what it meant to be holy. Clocks hide a wild truth.

Question the implicit faith in the functionality of all planning. One longs to be held in Gettysburg, one longs to kneel where you open.