Monday, April 12, 2021

All the Other Lambs

Morning. Throw hay to the horses. Village asleep, family asleep. World asleep? The only man in the cosmos who knows what shoes are for listens to cardinals in the still-unblossoming apple trees and later writes this: this this. Geese in the flooded cornfields a quarter mile way. I, too, shall try my wings and sing as I go into the light. How soft the earth is underfoot! Call it meditation or contemplation, call it happiness, who cares. I don't have to live the way I lived anymore: this is a critical insight we must all reach. Venus so lovely on the horizon brightening if I had a heart I'd carve it into an altar. Or say yes to Satan. Or is seeing itself the church? Shed the alb, twist the sword into a pruning share, stop murdering Isaac and all the other lambs. Jump! You taught me this and I've got nothing now but this. Let's talk, indeed. 

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