Geese flying overhead two days running, as if something has changed in the world. Imagination, which exceeds the body. Mist below the far hills, roughly tracking the river, which at midnight sings in a low voice, songs of what can never be wrecked or ruined. As between the pasture and the garden I move slower. Opening the barn door watching a cricket scuttle into shadows near the hay rakes. The corn is above us now, thick leaves rustling as we pass. Poets whose work I can't go back to because I was never moved by it nor respected the craft, et cetera. Running alone, praying rosaries alone, sleeping alone. Shall we measure our lives by days or by books? The one who loves you is not love, yet confusing the two is a site of abundant joy. Look at me retracing steps I never took, taking the map with me to a Country beyond Signs. The one to whom I would give all the prisms and all the crystals, if only they were real. Here where the prayer deepens apparently on its own.
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