Off the Fulcrum

Gritty eloquence bearing me forward on hot black coffee at the strangely comforting four a.m. Or was Dylan in the Chelsea Hotel channeling Emily Dickinson and not knowing it? Back then it rained less in winter, back then when we were cold we didn't complain. Technologies function as metaphors the way God functioned for our ancestors (who didn't know from metaphors but that's a different story). One cherishes guitars, knives, ceramic elephants and prisms, doesn't one. My body has many parts, each with varying degrees of utility, and the whole as such ceases to matter the way once upon a time it did. We have followed dogs deep into the forest, the joy of those travels marred only by regret for the discomfort we brought to black bears. I sit up all night with Jeremiah who sleeps in throes of sickness, moaning and tossing, and remember doing the same with my father as he died, and wonder when I will finally slip off the fulcrum attended by a man. Who argues with me that moonlight is not blue has yet to reach the preferential garden. Shadows of maple trees elongate over snowy lawns. Quietly saying "I too dwell in possibility," hoping she will allow the reference. So night passes unto day, mansions unto homes unto restoration projects, and bones unto crystals in which emptiness rehearses yet another role for the interior critic. My umbrella is broken my love - would you mind sharing yours?