Silver beads of dew on clover in a far corner of the field. Remember corn pushing up through cracked hills of dirt, how surprised you were, like it was magic. The eaves are cracking after all these years. And in my dreams, oxen bellow and groan, and the mountains respond with gentle songs of encouragement.
Stars do not actually move in the sky they only seem to because of how the earth turns, is a fact I was bitter about learning for a long time. At night I let the demon out and explain for the ten thousandth time we aren't knocking any mailboxes over but if he wants to climb a tree then fine. Some days are over, some are just beginning. I gather fallen apples too bitter to put up and spread them over the compost. Chrisoula and I sit on the back stairs after running early, roseate mallow light filtering through maple trees, our knees touching, talking about Vermont.
The ones who have no grave.
Who listens and who only seems to? Exposure to poison ivy turns me into a terrified idiot, a child, and two days pass in a benadryl haze, limiting everything, but whatever angry ghost was living below the skin of my left arm is gone. How angry a lot of white people are! The sun is bright early but then disappears behind low-hanging storm clouds. Democracy is a way the other gets in, hence attacks on it.
I can't sleep, can't find a writing or reading rhythm, and so end up watching crappy action movies, my brain lulled by the familiar narrative structures, including bursts of violence fatal mainly only to bad guys. Keep reframing, notice who is reframing, reframe the one who is reframing, keep going, you'll figure it out. There are only so many destinations so there are only so many road trips is inaccurate, misunderstands the reasons we travel.
No more kisses! Dippers full of cool water, ladles full of stew, margins of error shrinking so as to be all but unnoticeable in this new, this glorious Cookout with the Lord.
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