Rain at 4 a.m., for which there is never enough praise. One drags a lover into the field to watch the Perseids only to find they are not there (despite a wool blanket, despite the old canteen sloshing with wine). The history of coffee and maybe the story of you.
I mean the magnificent lens of which we are all composed! And closed bridges which we cheerfully circumvent, lost in conversation. "So that's why they call them white tails," she said after, buttoning her shirt.
Where "after" is where we are headed, no matter how lovely or sexual the interim. No visible stars means a different kind of morning walk, a subtlety lost on most of us now, but probably not you. Motels in New England daring me to write a particular poetry which - as a matter of fidelity - I won't.
Well, oxen, to which I am always offering a kind of longing most men reserve for abstractions like honor and justice and "too drunk to kick the dog." The mower spares frogs - or allows me time to spare frogs - and so I do, thoughtfully, as if Life itself were giving such close attention. While replanting the Christmas tree, we talked about speech defects and being the youngest child and how often what you do wrong rights itself in time.
Just when you think you hit bottom you discover you can always fall a little further. One spends hours in the drugstore picking out just the right card. Thank you, Jesus, you stubborn but generous bastard!
The mail bears nothing but distractions, in the way that getting everything you want is never really what you want. Actually, there is not "always another hand." What I am saying - or trying to say - is that making love in the forest, while personally preferable, may not be any more sacred than a bed.
The dream of better days dying while he inventories his wallet! Oh fisticuffs, oh whiskey, oh distant angel of the word.
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