It comes into focus as a gift one longs to give, and it comes into focus as a gift that one is given.
People come and go, talking about their favorite sandwich at D'Angelo.
Wind blows, lifting road sand scattered by Highway Department guys at 5 a.m. into sunlight. Or are there shadows. Saccades.
One moves easily between moods, as the verb they are also evolves, and never without leaving the hayloft. Quintillian's observation that "in connexion with the verb we get solecisms of gender, tense, person and mood [modos] (or “states” [status] or “qualities” [qualitates] if you prefer either of these terms), be these types of error six in number, as some assert, or eight as is insisted by others (for the number of the forms of solecism will depend on the number of subdivisions which you assign to the parts of speech of which we have just spoken)."
Women, too, come and go, talking of the men they knew or will one day come to know.
Mariah rattles the hayloft, making the effort to box up books more complicated, as in a deep place one feels threatened, and the books are stones against which no weather or intruder can prevail.
Skies darkening with arrows in flight. The moon behind faint clouds, glowing, and the interior sense one is almost done with admiring it, can move on, let it be, let go.
Pass through.
The lonesome valley of which many speak but few know. The desert in which one recognizes Lucifer as a brother, and is thus relieved of the role of savior, brought formally at last to the radical essence of mutuality.
Christs come and go, talking about the little statues they make with their little brother's play-doh.
For nothing then, for all.
Sweeping the kitchen floor, bits of straw, a random pin, two pumpkin seeds and dust. Chicken thawing, steaks on the counter coming to room temperature for later frying on the grill out back. When I said I'll be your baby tonight I meant it literally.
In the hayloft, Seans come and go, talking about this and that, nothing at all, all of which you know.
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