Every Time We Reach a Door

Bent cattails encased in frost. Why do you say the things you say? 

I remember walking the dog at four a.m. in Worthington ten years ago, new to A Course in Miracles, and falling to my knees beneath rioting stars, aware that I was mistaking my confusion about God for God. Our bodies make a warm tent of the blankets in which we touch and kiss, gentle and kind in a late and dangerous state of world.

Dusk in the city, headlights sparkling, dangerously pretty. Train tracks tapering off in grass shy of empty warehouses.

Culling old email addresses. Bold moves in the social sphere promptly rewarded. 

In early November one's thoughts turn to Advent, and Advent-related essays largely unshared. I am here to feed you, and if you are not hungry, then I am here to consent to being fed by you.

Jogging up Main Street a little after five a.m., roosters howling behind houses on the east side, stars fading in the pantheonic heavens. The form always fails but content rolls on forever.

Shall we be lovers then? One grows quieter at funerals, knowing intuitively what loss is and the viability of ritual to assuage it.

We who are not our father but to whom fathers appear in dreams both waking and sleeping, asking questions and posing answers, and generally asking for the welcome they denied themselves while living. Plans for the coming lunar eclipse, remembering our first together.

Lawyer-speak. Every time we reach a door we struggle a little with who holds it open, who walks through, who goes last, et cetera.

Demons are simply stunted angels in need of light and sustenance, which I am no longer afraid to provide. In the distance - scratching frosty grass - wild turkeys, a happiness I am happy to relay in words.