Little red candles. Candy hearts. Ego is me, my and mine - the deep yaw of it, mute but intent, like a river under a mountain moving the mountain. Peace, my child, peace.
Waking at midnight to cats yeowling in the yard, going out to check on the horses, shiving in early fall, moon gone and the sky a riot of stars and lost dreams.
Jerry explains to us the doctor has recommended "the can-a-beeze" for his insomnia. Plot lines, character development, setting - the outlines of the story inhere in your mind, are, in fact, your mind.
Let us pry.
She looks up laughing, the veins in her throat soft blue. Joan Jett songs. Leaves fall, sifting through moist light, making one think of the soul.
The calves were wrapped in burlap, then unceremoniously lowered into holes we'd dug by the grape arbor, or did I tell you this already.
Losses, longitudes, lateral career moves.
Chrisoula and I sit drinking coffee on the porch, happy in ways that require attention to remember. How we walk with those with whom we walk. Decision-making.
Clouds of Easter. Interior sailors making marks in me to remember where they've been and where they're headed next. Roaring falls in Vermont.
Jerusalem is psychological.
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