Iterations of us.
Morning passes writing, sentence by sentence. What the body's eyes see and what are other ways of seeing. Falling into what faith insists is possible.
Mowing the old cemeteries in Worthington at twilight, the mower chunking low-laying stones sinking and floating two centuries in the soil. Growing up, out, away.
I remember flying. I remember you far below, forever where I would land one day, and end one day.
Bird bones in talus off trails up Mount Ascutney.
Ascending you by degrees, breathing harder as the summit nears, thinking of stars and how the vast dark of night is only possible because of them. Learning how to learn. Learning you by degrees.
Morning passes listening to trucks pass, tires hissing on rainy macadam, a sound that makes me remember Worthington in the early seventies.
Stained glass windows. Insisting on this or that form of prayer. Being endless with you, illusory with you, joining the way we join in you when lost in you I am lost.