As one, the sheep move to the fence to watch two boys walk by with fishing poles, the river behind them, and no fish to show. Wind blows tiny clouds away from us - the grassy surface of unmown fields ripples and waves - and the moon is faint in the afternoon sky, like soap dissolving in water. I have to remind myself all the time that holiness as such does not exist. Slowly we begin to face the failure of love that is our body and see with clear eyes that we have not yet begun the journey we are always professing to have nearly finished. With your hand in mind? I make peace with Chrisoula's occasional antagonism, contextualize it with my own emotional challenges, and end up wanting to be helpful without any earthly idea how. The shadow of the turkey vulture - so much larger than the bird itself - passes over the leaning peonies and I tremble, tremble tremble. In a dream I am lectured by suffragettes and cannot keep my cigar lit. Where is Mary now? To whom shall I address the poem? Bittersweet ascends distant trees, beyond our reach, thus not decoration? It would have to be a miracle, would it not? And other understandings hiding in the river where we cannot lay our hands on them.
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