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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