Thursday, September 17, 2020

I Dream of Us Laughing

Is it wrong I want to follow Her? At night she wakens me at three a.m. and I walk through the yard to the apple trees. My heart is cavernous, duplicit, fatty and brass. 

Apples fall in the cold wet grass of August. The stars say "winter." Night winds rattle the second story. Whose town is this?

Crickets singing in jewelweed, toads scuttling off the stairs when I pass. How agile we are when in need.

And another story and another.

Eighteen-wheelers grind up Main Street to the hardware store. Wearing hats while walking that belonged to my father. In a dream, a friend who became a therapist says, "it's not supposed to be this hard."

Big fury. My nightscape.

One of these robins may be the last robin I'll ever see in this life and will I know, do I want to know.

Suddenly the gods are speaking to me again, rising up in me from deep places to nudge the writing this way or that. Complicity requires a collective. 

It begins in black I say of his art and years later he tells me how helpful it was, that observation. I dream of her hands undoing my belt, I dream of us laughing at how long it took to find the requisite trail.

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