At a distance, chainsaws. Due west, my love.
One writes and days later what they write appears differently on the page. Passersby. Passenger pigeons.
Breaded lamb chops, caramelized onions. We share a beer on the front porch, not talking which is - at a late stage of the marriage - talking, deeply.
Trimming forsythia so that it doesn't extend into the sidewalk, making it easier for older neighbors to walk with canes and walkers.
Spun glass. Spitting.
Near midnight I wake and go to the window and the stars are so glorious that I go outside and stand in the driveway awestruck, sure I have lived before, a thousand lifetimes, and in this one am meant only to give thanks, over and over.
How we cry in the dusty stairwell leading to the hay loft, how we hold each other in the dim light, as if for life.
Contemplating trees that need to be cut down, which I do not want to cut down yet which - because they jeapordize the horse pasture and the horses - I will cut down. Forgive me yet again, Goddess.
For years it mattered that I'd had sex on a hill overlooking the bay opposite Castleton-Beire but now I don't know, now it feels as if I was confused, deeply, about love and sex and time and the Lord.
We who are executing a nontrivial end run around monotheism which, paradoxically, does nothing unjust to the divine.
"Optimism," I say, to which she adds, "and margaritas," to which I say gently but without conviction, "and margaritas, yes."
Hungering for turtle meat and longing to be straddled again by the fire.
The first ghost, the last ghost, the in-between ghosts, the middle.
Seriously, whose dream is this?