Wednesday, February 9, 2022

Darkness Sings in Me

Hannah Cullwick visits, sunlight breaks through clouds, my mouth fills with dirt and the interior choir sings "this again:" this this. Vespers, vigils. Boyishly, always. 

Dragging snow from the porch roofs in hard winds, later fishtailing on Route Nine. Who struggles is brought to heel eventually. Just how late is it?

We "take" pleasure. We wore tie dye and birkenstocks, smoked pot and wrote poetry, sometimes we played Christ, especially on the shores of Lake Champlain, and along the way began learning what it means to be tender, just, merciful, kind. Raising jaded daughters.

Still sometimes the darkness sings in me. Florida is never far away, son. Dust mote blues.

Vaginas say on your knees boy. Driving west everything darkens. Begging let me lick you.

Stains. Ron Atkinson's daughter's grace. Grave?

I'm what kind of flavor do you want the most. The family collapsing, house and lands to follow.

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