Sunday, June 6, 2021

Nothing Else is Home

What we are looking for is a way to say I love you, that is always what we are looking for. Walking by the side yard lilac, brushing it, frail blossoms from its few flowers land on my shoulder, whispery but noticeable, and I am blessed. I remember hearing him say "cellar door" and falling in love with sound in that moment, and also disentangling how a word sounds from what it means, and I am not kidding when I say that moment was both lethal and redemptive. Born again means dying again, no? Blood on the Tracks, us driving north, getting salads and coffee some place, then driving back and that - the travel, the music, the commensality - is home and nothing else is home. Don't memorize, understand! By noon the heat was too much, and we sat idly in lawn chair with books we couldn't be bothered to read, watching thunderheads gather west before floating down the valley towards us. Not saying you're sorry so much as becoming the kind of man who doesn't need to say "sorry" so much? Stick with me, kid, I've got a horse. I carry four a.m. inside me now, the dream of it, the many prayers of it, and remain lonely but happy, in a way I can't say I was made to share. 

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