The murderous enormity of my pain and anger, which Christ gently asks me to give Him as a gift, which offer I cannot believe is real. After days of sun, rain clouds move in, and one writes quietly with their coffee, alone again.
I reject as “love” that which remains a secret or illicit or even negotiable.
Death, like sex, feels like an objection to the terminal nature of bodies, one that we are together meant to elide.
Various paint stains on my jeans, witnessing the many projects my hands have attended over the years, inartfully but faithfully. They say when are you going to get a dog again and I have no answer because the answer I have is not the answer they want. Samuel Barber’s understanding of sadness.
Apple blossoms, annoyances, announcements, annuals, ant hills, annuities, antiphons.
He talked about the ruins of his marriage and as I listened a sparrow hopped along the river bank, not distracting so much as enhancing, as if reminding me of something I’d long ago forgotten. Sharing a joint by the fire, not talking, just now and then leaving the unity of our nestled body to throw another log on.
Sparks hurl themselves toward heavenly stars and fall back into our fire.
How in certain traditions vomiting is “getting well.”
Slow-drying macadam, light breezes. How inevitably we disappoint one another, and yet go on together, lovers.
Frying breakfast sausage over low heat, listening to the kids argue about what constitutes “funny,” grateful for their intelligence but also lost in my own kitchen, my own family.
Churches are empty now. Hell spews fire trucks into our brains which, lacking Emily Dickinson’s clarity, are receptive to such damaging energy.
The nineteenth century was ten thousand years ago, and I am only just now seeing this.
This slow coupling, soft opening, this rest in thee.