May I not forget.
She shares a photograph of her at a public gathering - dressed, made up, happy - and I have to deconstruct the image to find the light and then reconstruct it slowly to remember the light and it makes me go deeper into what is holy, what is relationship, what is love (and what is hidden, secret, ashamed, unsure).
What is love (baby don't hurt me).
Moonlight at 5 a.m., frost everywhere sparkling and the river humming in the distance and nothing missing, nothing not given, and knowing this at last.
What is distant, what is given.
I dream a certain philosopher following me down marble stairs, both of us preparing for a kind of battle, not alarmed but with a sense of futility.
The thin band of her wedding ring and that which it signifies and that which it will never signify again.
Seeing past her now to the world and time, to the cosmos and the one Goddess, to nothing and everything.
Imagine moonlight on your shoulder, imagine kisses and imagine the immense quiet after, as if there were no more shadows. Are there no more shadows is the question of what would you do if you could say aloud what you want to do more than any other doing.
I drive slower than usual in order to see more clearly the many holiday decorations in our little town and in this way go deeply into a very old and simple happiness and thus transform the holiday into a holy day and then the holy day into holiness and then I am home and then I am home.
Parting your thighs, kissing the hinge, hints of what's to come.
Goals. Gold. Gods.
Called lovingly into transcendence.
My tongue in you off the trail somewhere, your come-cries startling birds from happy trees bending over us protectively.
In the morning, in the light, in love.