A wind I wouldn't wish on anyone. A wish I wouldn't whisper into any dark hole. Ghosts of hemlock trees unsure how to proceed, as if knowing that haunting never brings anything back.
Phone calls we don't remember we need to make, remember when it's too late, nearly asleep, et cetera. In the hayloft with my poems and a couple hundred pounds of potatoes and apples. When you drift, are you really drifting or is it something with intention you only name "drifting" days later. How the floor tilts.
How nothing fits.
A nexus between denim and desire we didn't make yet can't resist. She is shy until we're mostly naked, then takes over, slowing everything down, sweaty and breathy, as if we actually are bodies and well-paced fucking is what makes us happy, religious, et cetera.
Cold winds that make me duck walking back from the horses. Everything is alleviated when one is disposed to the end of crisis, but you have to actually want the end of crisis and most of us don't. On my knees briefly in supplication.
Knowing what we want and knowing how to say it aloud are maybe two different things. Clearing a little where in later spring the blue flag will appear (but not spontaneously). What else is so reckless in its desire to claim us if not Jesus and what Jesus symbolizes?
Teacherless teachers, Buddha-less Buddhas. What is empty now grows more so, as if to emphasize something about process. Apple-shaped sun catchers hang in east-facing windows, surprisingly luminous for this hour of day.
The illusion - again - of satisfying - of incandescent - answers.
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