To Be Overlooked

There is a purple light this dusk, as if one were hiding in the pocket of a good king.

Lessons my mother taught that she would like to take back but cannot. Mountains I have not climbed and may never, and yet.

Slicing swiss chard to saute with white beans slow-cooked all day, to be added to onions and garlic themselves sauteed with with ham ends from the day before. 

We are never where we believe we are, nor headed in any direction other than the one that is so obvious as to be overlooked.

Yellow leaves on Sunday falling so prettily you could believe that we are actually meant to be happy.

Family demon dance party behind the barn at 1 a.m. or so, me without a jacket in November cold, turning in thin moonlight with my arms open, feeling the proximity of Christ among all the other dangers.

Being on the mountain and hearing voices.

Praying quietly at 4 a.m. in the hay loft, listening to rats scratch in the woodwork, welcoming them as best as one is able.

Going back to Maturana and Varela, remembering the feeling then of being so happy reading them, and then later in Cambridge being gently reminded that study as such was no longer required, a letting go I still struggle to let go.

In many ways mind is similar to a body of water. What did those early travelers think of the stars? Gods with whom we are no longer in dialogue. 

Hand-carved sea birds secured by threads to rough-hewn rafters overhead. It's not a poem so much as a cry in the void, offered by one who knows the value of being heard.

Those who come close, almost dangerously so, and those who - from a distance - broker some essential insights. The mountain is both inside you and in southern Vermont. 

Terrible dreams now. Running in darkness past the river, arguing with a murderer I know too well.

Fine, fuck it, do it, throw it into the sea, see if I care, et cetera.