In a dream I profess that I am ascending in order to at last descend into the heart. Folded quilts. Eye infections.
Sacred texts, spiritual direction. My son is annoyed with me all the time now, and I think of my father and his father, which neither helps nor hurts. A single rose.
She asks me to go down on her in the hay loft, just that, no reciprocity, and I do, of course I do. Sounds of rain, sounds of traffic far away. I remember as a boy fishing alone in deep forests, attended by God.
A single rose. The champagne was piss-colored, bubbling in flutes, and the wind off the lake smelled faintly of trash. I proceed in a monastic - because I am desperate - way.
Yet later I sit quietly going back over the sentences, rewriting, realizing I don't remember when I last gave anyone head and wonder will I ever again. Broken tree limbs, spongy soil. The horses beckon and I rise and dress in darkness, observant and obedient both.
Are you listening? Chrisoula points out the first hornet of Spring, later asks if I want some beans and rice and is my headache gone. We are going slowly now, as befits those for whom deconstruction and dissolution are the law.
Moonlight in the pasture, my heart opening in this familiar - yet entirely new - way. The only problem has been solved indeed.
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