Days of healing blur and one staggers away from them amazed and full of light. Roosters signifying the end of darkness. We are collaborators now, we meet in the twilight at the edge of the forest where once upon a time we saved each other.
A sense that one is sailing and there is time yet to right the ship. To be in such intimate relationship with distance, exploring impossibility. I have no voice anymore, much less a desire to speak.
After Christmas the city turns mostly gray. Winter is always a journey in the heart of what hunkers down. I began looking at her husband and was uncomfortable with how much I didn't care was he happy. Snow falling overnight. Imagine being scared of children!
There is only ever one ghost and you are it. Writing is performative, gestural. It helps to understand what Jim Morrison was doing, apart from his intentions. What is wild will be tamed, what is tame will have dreams you don't want to hear about.
A happiness one knows mainly in libraries. There will be no end to this he thundered. Street corner preachers. January things. I walk farther than usual, happy in a way I used to insist was fiction.
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