More of What is Always Beginning

And so it is day.

Sanskrit sensibility affects me and the movement is slow and elegant, as if I have been emptying the bodies of animals all day in anticipation of a long winter.

On my shoulder the moon, and in my mind, brother Lucifer. 

Our shared release put off again another lifetime. Awkwardly navigating lies.

In semi-darkness I kneel and study the dark object before me, trying to ascertain is it a chunk of wood or a bone. The old lie of "if not now, when?"

My father's books spill across the hayloft floor and I step among them carefully. Hand-made chalices, as if there were another kind.

We who have dominion over all things according to our Creator. Whispering, gently cupping the side of her head with my right hand, the other against the pantry wall for balance. 

Giving each other head at a late stage of the marriage. Light breaking through the prism. Unclean amethyst.

The function of oxygen.

Of worship, which is simply a gentle recognition of the other's "worth."

Willow trees near the air strip descended from those my father grew. There is nothing here but more of what is always beginning. 

The question is: what do you want now?

More sketches of the Buddha please, more Jesus gazing soulfully back at us from shattered glass.