Happy to Watch What Passes

What I can't say comes back to haunt me. 

Dragonflies high above the outdoor stove. I say sunflowers are not the color of the sun and Fionnghuala says I am confused about beauty.

From whence does the chorus come if not the conviction that repetition is how we remember best.

Two foxes come up the meadow at dusk, getting almost halfway to the garden before they notice me sitting quietly. Warm beer. 

The popping sound pickles make deep within the towel-wrapped crock.

Swollen ankles. I remember telling him she was Greek and he said, "Greek women are the most beautiful women," which I hadn't thought about. On the train all night, happy to watch what passes, as if there no other kind of joy.

Absent utility, is it still love? "Ego" is mostly a red herring. 

Coffee at dusk, writing poems, happy in the old way all over again.

Think carefully about what you kill. The sky, it empties itself of clouds. One anticipates bittersweet, its decorative qualities.

While in another sense, there is no interior. One admires the optimism of the man growing plum trees in New England. 

Be a good symbiote.

Swallow me if you don't mind I swallowed me first.