Friday, January 7, 2022
Seams in the light indicating visitors, ghosts or talking llamas maybe, maybe angels of the sort that used to visit back in Worthington. Rocking chairs going by themselves. Her vast body is behind me now, like all the deaths I circle at distances in danger of collapsing. Maple leaves skit up Main Street, driven by light winds that make a lonely sound in mostly empty trees. Don't overdo it? We talk about a long winter in the hay loft, lights out because the moon is visible, a blue ethereality making us tenderer than usual. The wedding, the marriage, the infidelity, the forgiveness and the morning after et cetera. What is a kind of ritual or dance? Sharing a cup of coffee in the barn before it is light, chores no longer a burden. This is the end of what we make with marble. One shifts their emphasis from gaze to glance, from deep dives to skimming, and from dreaming to the kitchen, where soup is on and the pantry door temptingly ajar. Mistaking a certain tree on the horizon for a crucifix, wondering not for the last time are we any closer to the end of fear. I mean, really: what happens when you let go of a helium-filled balloon and don't look up?
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