Monday, July 5, 2021

An Answerless Man

After two days dodging a fallen bird's nest while running at the park I carry it home the back way and set it down by a Buddha statue tucked into the rotting base of an apple tree where I have drawn the line on cutting. You never know what constitutes too much information, but a long sentence can be a journey endlessly. "Don't forget an umbrella." Jason and I talk about heart-shaped rocks, wondering at what juncture in our history they started to matter. Saint Augustine is seminal as always. Look for the level at which cooperation happens and work back from there. It's hard to think any way other than critically about crucifixion. Spring potatoes fried in butter. The rain stops and starts, then takes over the day, and I settle into a rocking chair to read Jack Gilbert's Collected Poems, my elder brother if anybody is, cycling through gratitude, disappointment and respect. Who is feeding who? Most of the many questions that once haunted me no longer do, but I am most definitely an answerless man. How close are you to my father's grave in Mansfield? The turtles are talking again, taking their lead from a fluorescent telepathic octopus. The rosary beads, they slip through my fingers like secrets, ant poison, drops of rain, coins.

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