Devotion to the Only Syllable

Between fast-moving rain clouds, the sky. Summer gone is always a sadness but why. Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the water, indeed.

We are filled with birds now, many of which do not have names and have never been seen before except by angels. Narrow door frames through which ghosts pass, single file, long past haunting, celebrancy dissipating.

Even now, even now.

What I fear has a name and when I learn the name the fear subsides. What is a breeze but what passes?

Is the city or the family a better microcosm of the cosmos? There is all this confusion, there is all this sorrow.

Angus Young in the 1970s, Jim Morrison's grave, stolen photos of Kurt Cobain's suicide, and dreams of Randy Rhoads lost in a space age disco. 

If you settle into looking for love, you will eventually reach the Cave of the Heart, and there begin a long apprenticeship in semantics which ends with your devotion to the only syllable there is. 

Her hand lingering on the lamp. Before bed, talking, her feet warming against my calves. 

What is chocolate for. What is the lake when you see it in dreams vs. when wading through its shallows.

Reflecting on the ongoing wedding, i.e., the marriage subsumed now by a ritual which transcends time and space and thus ritual itself.

How deeply can you go - how deep are you willing to go - into John Lennon's "All You Need is Love?" Lemon bread with tea at the kitchen table, finances spread out before us, worry a faint cloud encircling our heads, ceiling-level, like pipe smoke.

What is allowed is what happens, that's all.