Sunday, April 11, 2021

Focus on Crosses

My destination, my peregrination. One day we will write the last sentence we will ever write and then what? The prismatic spiral opens and the cosmos replies accordingly. You take yourself pretty damn seriously he said, which I deemed merited no response which was, in a way, responsive. Playing piano on Friday nights in college, hiding with coffee in the fine arts center, a way of getting away from the politics of sex and drinking, but also a way of being quiet with something pretty, which I never learned to say is all I really want. A dog named Algonquin, a night beneath stars. Crocuses rising about the time we have to focus on crosses, or that one cross in particular, and the dead man rising in its shadow. Nothing happens, nothing is happening, and yet the stillness is so alive and creative it makes me weep. A lot depends on the language we use, and our willingness in the end to go beyond it. Nobody wants to say so but a little boy needs help and the man who wants to help him is confused about what comes next, want to talk?

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