Wednesday, October 28, 2020

My Hands will be Gone

Black coffee, half moon. 

October: this October. 

Also, what's "in" a name? Where will the sentences go next - the form and the specific example? 

The blue stillness, depthless depths, the stars and the space between them, all of it spilling, being brought forth.

Frothy beer heads, messy blowjobs.

Bittersweet on dying maple trees just beyond the pasture. Every time I hold a chainsaw I wonder if one or both of my hands will be gone by day's end.

I remember looking for her bra in the dark, both of us laughing and happy.

We sleep, dream, wake up and go back to sleep: is this a problem?

Fire makes a dim light when it's lit in the far back of the cave yet somehow we find it. 

Lines in the sand.

Unexpected letters that reveal once again we've been used, set up as this or that, tossed around in social circles, and when will this grief end, when will this loneliness cease.

My mother trying to say she is sorry, the Great Mother leaning in on both of us without clarifying my role in the amends.

Bells, bats, binoculars, bears, bad bets and bestiaries.

Pancake batter forgotten in the back of the fridge.

Altars made of cornstalks and dried gourd and pumpkin vines. When your people and my people are one people. Long roads on which we walk a long time before turning back at last, as if giving up on distance and its array of possibilities.

Born again in you, little by little trying my voice in you, lost in the truth of you, the simple notes, the unlimited arrangements of you. 

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