Before We Were Angels

Well, you can't go back, not after telling her for the ten thousandth time you won't be back. Is it a question then of quantity? In truth, the moon is not heeding new laws or patterns, it's not playing a game. We're lost, in a way, but in another way, we're not lost at all, and it was ever thus. These sentences are not a chore. Like a lake, every dream of us wants to be visited and taken home. There are no mysteries and we have no secrets.

Yet remain partial to an arcane penitential sequence? Absent chickadees, I am mostly comfortless, yet absent comfort, I am nestled in familiar psychological strategies, including the one that is always on the lookout for chickadees. The floor creaks when she goes to the bathroom, the bed creaks when she pulls off her shirt. Before there was speech there was sound. But what was before we were angels?

Well, history overwhelms us, especially those enthralled with a certain crucifixion, a certain metaphorical garden, and a certain ideal Bo tree. The art of Leonardo da Vinci was premised on many fine layers, no one of which could function without the others. Why say yes when no produces an identical result? I get only so far with the laundry before finding myself lost in swirling sunlit dust motes, folding and refolding a shirt I will never wear again.