Merely Simulacra

Is there time to write another poem? You think haiku are simple and you're actually correct, but this a sentence. The rivers in Worthington and the stones I took from them and carry with me still, still flowing.

When we take a thing apart we create a responsibility to ensure it is put back together.

Wild rice with sauteed onions and slivered carrots. Raisin bran in a dark kitchen, roosters crowing two doors down, asking hard questions.

In early fall the blind horse begins crying out earlier and earlier, something in the air alerting him to his hunger and the earth's provision. Many of us are always sad, or often sad.

The movement of your breasts when you move your arm reaching for a pen. Why do we pose and why do some of us resisting posing, futilely, because resisting posing is itself a pose?

Avoiding music more and more in the emerging awareness of rhythms and harmonies implicit in living to which our own musicality is merely simulacra. Phone numbers we remember from childhood.

In a dream you floated a little above me, wrapped in translucent silk, and we ate hallucinogenic lilies and communed with moonlight. 

The grief I felt when I learned Bon Scott was dead, and how nobody helped me manage it. Mail slots, lost wallets, liver spots.

Bits of cracked corn the chickens left softening in last night's rain. There are other weddings, other marriages, and there is a country beyond all that in which even the idea of coupling is obviated by oneness.

I remember loose horses galloping through the back yard, my father and I watching from a distance he insisted on. 

Fallen apples, fallow Edens.

After dusk say, by the fire out back, nestling in tangled blankets, coming together kissing, our cries echoed by stars who cannot help but envy our love.