Washed, robed in black, laid out, deaf to the weeping of the many mourners and gazing at the backs of oily pennies. In the morning after throwing hay to the horses, I piss on the roots of wintry forsythia. Draw a breath, let it slowly leave the starved colony of my body, gather another, painfully. Dawn arrives in a roseate blush, traces of snow suspended on tufted grass no longer white. What is reflected, translated, told again? What does the mind say and who is listening? We are hints of what is real but only hints but what is it that knows the hint as a hint and how. Ascutney in my dreams now, a gold slope I may never ascend alone again. One's gaze goes a long time west to find that upon which it can rest forever and does. The old dog visits before sleep, reminds me he is waiting at the edge of a vast field full of light, no rush, but what's waiting for what, right? Who is calling who. Soon I say, glad to discover at last it's true. Not yet, I say. But soon.
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