This Riptide of a Life

The one who sweeps up after elephants. Who made us the center of the universe, hellbent on understanding? The radiator creaks a little, you draw the blanket tighter. Snow falls as if always.

A lot blurs when something becomes acute - a sense of loss, a deep love, the moment before coming - and this is neither a mystery nor a problem. The neighbors bring a dozen quarts of cider by, two pints of peach wine, and a drawing of raccoons their little one did. "Let us pray" is a sweet invitation, but the space it evokes has a wildness to it few are able to manage. Living alone at a late age.

Christy Moore songs. Make a list of everything you've stolen in this life, be radically honest in doing so. The light these mornings in the glass bluebirds I've collected and been gifted over the years. Shanna Dobson's diamonds waking me in the night.

It helps to remember that remembering is natural, not a crime against God or Nature. Watching folks spread butter on toast - anything really, jam, jelly, peanut butter - and seeing the whole cosmos in the lovely dance of matter and intention. Lying in bed, my cock hard and smooth to touch, "hot marble" I think, "I should put that in a poem," and then laugh quietly, the spell broken. A network of shadows on which the dead are suspended when they visit to relay their helpful missives.

At last the old jeans can no longer be patched and are cannibalized for what still can be. Detailed notes for what should happen after our death are not the answer either. After months away from the familiar text, I open it again, leaning into the devotion that has been so vexing in this riptide of a life. The moon blurred by snow clouds at midnight, a loveliness I would give up my wings to taste.