What has no antonym?
Rinsing out the trash cans. The chicken whose legs weren't working a week ago is no longer distinguishable from those whose legs do work, so something is working.
One goes deeper into God, as into a difficult text.
I find myself thinking of Cape Cod these days, the way it appears in my living as a dreamscape, an ecstatic landscape, visitable but not - for me - habitable.
Shall we begin again?
At the transfer station I keep my head down, my fatigue such that dialogue is a peril. Juvenile hawks exploring their wings.
Purple loosestrife, roadside chicory.
What do you say on balance?
I make popcorn with paprika and cumin and we eat it side by side on the couch watching Golden Girls reruns, laughing at ourselves settling into the early stages of our dotage. Please: don't forget dysthymia.
When we use language, we construct a world of relationships from which we cannot escape, yet is escape as such desirable? He calls Northampton "Maskville" and I sigh, withdrawing a little from the conversation. Quarter-pounders grilled outside, roasted kale chips and malted vanilla milkshakes.
In the grocery store I hesitated by the gin, admiring the many shapes and colors of the bottles, and remembering years ago drinking gin and tonics with J. by the Connecticut River.
Outside the lines.
Divine revelation is ongoing and the reason it feels otherwise is our stupid addiction to ecstasy and misery, the wild twins of our childhood.
Praying a rosary in starlight, knowing my solitude is my own now, and will only be shared on terms of another's making.
"I like it when you do that - will you do it again?"