Do fireflies mourn their own dead? What was going on in Robert Johnson's mind in 1930? Will I ever visit Asia?
Kale smoothies, grading papers, being generous because of the heat, now and then standing to stretch. Jogging early at the park, passing a bright yellow feather in the grass, too large for a goldfinch and gone the next day when I'm ready to actually study it. Remember getting high around midnight, sitting quietly out back and listening to the river, not needing to be anywhere else?
Skimming old journals, then burning them. Beyond the messiness of sex, the diminished expectations of love. How soft the clover is when we walk through it barefoot like clouds!
Snakes writhing away into the raspberry bushes, reminiscent of childhood. We are therefore given to nontrivial expectations of doom. Must it always come down to who approves and who does not?
Is this even a poem? Not why did you start a given writing project but why are you still at it, all these many years later? Not a single tear falls that does not have an origin story cherished by other tears.
After we die, does death remain? Down by the river after the sun falls there are voices in the water that speak but not to us. Noon is the darkest part of the road.
Trimming goldenrod around the garden, crawling in hot sun, the horses nearby watching me. At a late hour in an unfamiliar church all I can say is what's come over me.
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