Something with Teeth

The moon appears in the wrong part of the sky, or is it simply that in winter I am less attentive? It's not quite 4 a.m. but the body requires what the body requires. One treads spiritual water, turning in slow circles, looking for land and seeing mostly mist and other non-standard walls. When I ate peyote, nothing happened save another story that like all the other stories featured a very familiar protagonist. What tells on itself to itself and expects to be congratulated? A bowling alley is a specific kind of lonely, one that I can only just find my way through and maybe should not risk again. Or did we just just ask questions that a long time ago were answered and the answers forgotten and the forgetting naming itself love. Wan light slips through the west-facing curtain drawn tight across the frost blossoms' glass canvas and I dress quickly, everything cold and stiff from a night on the floor. So I'm a little bitter, so what? Perhaps Jesus calls our bluff, perhaps Satan really does prefer a Saturday dance party to work. Writing and rewriting writing as if repetition were the one solution to the many problems implied by repetition. Libraries remain a viable altar but reading has become habitual rather than ritual, and so some new way of living asks to be born. Sings itself awake in mid-winter? Well, insistence anyway. Something is rising from the bottom of a Vermont lake, something with teeth and confused ideas about privilege and hunger. Who cares who extends the invitation, who cares if our locks are brittle antiques. I'm not grooming anymore, I'm not pretending this isn't a corner, and I'm not kidding myself that these prayers are the world in a dew drop in a dew drop. Come, ghosts. I remain a welcome landscape only so much longer.