Thursday, September 30, 2021

The Loveliness of my Own Absence

Discerning in all the sounds the sound of the blind horse calling because he is lost. Rain in the gutters making a sound unlike the river. Dead coyotes on the side of the road, three over the course of a mile, a mystery I decline to solve.

And I will hang the prisms, and rainbows will fill the room at all hours of the day, and what is sad will become happy, and what is happy will become happier. Calls we do not take, do not return, but cannot forget. 

"I received your letter yesterday" is the beginning of a verse tying up a song that has always felt perfectly hallucinogenic. Tire irons. Praise falling in the souls of men no longer inclined to welcome it. The battlefield, I mean.

Goats on their hind legs watching me mow. Strands of baling twine by the groundhog's hole, making us laugh. Give me black Jesus.

Oh lethal salvation, how you make my throat ache. Stunted buttercups brushing against the fence post. Slivered apples dipped in hot chocolate.

Who sleeps in Heavenly peace? Mare's tails floating over the river. 

Fathered by starlight, mothered by dust. Stepping out of the painting briefly to look back and admire the loveliness of my own absence.

And begin.

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