So this is the silence to which you were referring! So many gods speak to me now that the One God no longer has to argue or even try to be heard.
In your heart there are many rooms.
Many ellipsis.
In my heart, a fireproof floor, and in my soul, a long sigh.
Letters to the Creatrix.
At dusk a cloudless sky, as if good news about the horses were heard overhead as well. Plans for early October begin, a sense we are eclipsing some old stagnation. Going down on you, lingering at your thighs.
Seven geese, then twenty geese, pass overhead. I am oriented accordingly.
And the garden dies a little, and then dies a little more.
Bittersweet ascends the dying poplar.
Not so long ago the devil moved on this landscape, belted in black and reeking of ashpits, and yet even that is undone.
Piles of kindling we don't burn will winter over by the raspberries. Sunflowers in starlight. The killdeer we used to excite, walking at four a.m. in old potato fields, up and down the airstrip adjoining a pair of fire ponds.
Slowing for deer crossing Kinnebrook Road and not picking back up. Two hours of discourse, revolutionary animism.
Why not walk in pairs?
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