Stork moon. A bitterness I cannot shake.
Diesel engines heating up at four a.m., low voices of men saying what they say over last cups of coffee. Footballs left out overnight on the lawn.
Old clarities. Newish rehearsals.
The bedroom window brightens behind heavy curtains, seams letting in a soft light that rests partially on our feet. Why kissing.
The late juncture at last brushing gently against the white moths of death, their whispers assurances there are neither ends nor beginnings.
Sawed-off limbs of the maple trees dragged into the forest. Familiar resentments, plans that went sideways, something that works by not working.
Saying something is a mystery is a form of invitation, an attempt to create dialogue where one is yet to exist, i.e., communication is a form of light.
The Titanic was always doomed in our narrative impulse, mythology insisting on itself despite the grandiosity of our technology, or is it simply that we love a good story and anything will do, tra la.
What happens at a tag sale stays at a tag sale, but not really. The profanity of "it is what it is."
It is not that we understand ego but that we recognize it and choose instead the other way.
Filling a glass decanter in the hay loft with polished marbles from childhood, a gift from my mother who found them tucked away in her basement. It is not the size of the rosary that matters, yet one does prefer those that fit well, that satisfy - that elevate the prayer to what is transcendent - and this is not a penis metaphor but it could be.
Sudden influxes of disorder and yet also a last day for summer dresses.
I mean the monkey we are, the angel we wrestle on the river bank, and the mountaintop encased in mist, a perilous height against which we hurl ourselves, astronaut-like, as if merely by wishing could a thing be made so.
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