Sunday, April 5, 2020
Far Away and Fatal
Playing and replaying old records. In sunlight, the icicles make me happy even as the cold frightens me. So much of what is external can be written off as illusory but for some reason the weather feels like God to me. It's helpful to notice who we admire, who we mock and who passes without our noticing. My ineptitude in certain social environments has become noticeably worse on the north side of fifty. Goats bray in my dreams, silver minnows flash in buckets left on the porch. In a way, my grandmother will always remind me of willows, as in a way, willows will always remind me of distances I'd rather not travel but must. We buried the calves in burlap grain bags out behind the wild grape arbor. I'm not scared to die but only because something in me insists it is beyond both birth and death. Last night, walking west up Main Street, shoulders bunched against the cold, Venus was a gold fire just above the hill. The gift, as such, turned out to be similar: beautiful, far away, and fatal should you ever manage to reach it.
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