Tuesday, October 13, 2020

My Heart was Supposed to End

Storm clouds running over low hills west. Let this be your prayer? Marigolds lift their heads a last time. A sorrow, a sadness, a settling. When it's windy and rainy I feel fear, but snow and cold can't touch me. When are you a comfort to those who require comfort?

Was this how my heart was supposed to end? Newspapers drift through the sky, fonts falling off of them like dust. I wake early and check on the horses, come back to bed and remember the days when I couldn't go days without sex. Erections and other remnants of a self long-gone.

Paintings which reflect an obsession with the sky. What opens, what sifts, what swears it will not be forsworn.

We laugh as late afternoon thickens around us like heavy quilts. Bowls of chili with salad on the side, corn bread crumbs on the hardwood floor. 

Provision, provenance. Pestilence.

We are lovely in ways that we forget, and ugly in ways that reflect our ongoing confusion about what is lovely and perfect and true. 

Down by the river, letting the body go.

Navigators, nativity sets, The National.

Refreshing familiarity with what will get us through the night, then getting through the night. 

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