Friday, July 10, 2020

Failing Jesus

Three grackles fly faster than I thought possible into a distant maple near the church. Failing Jesus is a way of seeing yourself that doesn't have to be unhelpful.

One cares about poetry in a way that includes - by way of letting go of - the world. Lovely men are lonely too.

You navigate, circumambulate, you masturbate. In the distance, white shells of fair buildings which will not be used this year.

Fate. Foreplay. Fastidiousness.

We talk on the front porch at dusk about food, recipes, putting up the harvest. We are in a corner now and we know it.

Schaberg's anger and her willingness to live clearly in her anger: how many scholars remain for me to discover, and how much time is left for discovery? Beginning stations of the cross at the removal of the body from the tomb: grief but not frozen-in-grief.

"The garden proper." Experiments.

Threats to groundhogs safely undone, our world goes on briefly safe for love. Mary Magdalene vibes, the cat with a mouse in its jaws still kicking.

Laundry hanging still in sunlight, still and translucent. Notes for later, always. 

What is west after all but a concept.

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