Imagining dawn at 4 a.m. or so. Full moon settling somewhere along Route Nine where we used to pull over and fish. The world is what we remember, which is always what our bodies desire. In between, as if.
New routine. One wakes early to write, the writing a kind of blind horse carefully establishing boundaries in which it is possible to live even without the critical sense. Coffee, hen scratch poems long forgotten, and Dylan's Wedding Song. There is this joy now that knows only itself.
Invitations piling up, a life suddenly measured in a way other than loss. Smoke rising over cold villages, threats of war half a globe away. Everybody agrees on the fundamentals but then it all goes to hell - why? Stuck on this image of a happy puppy, a playful scamp, a sense that something is being forgotten in the description of it but what?
Something solid, something wanted. Fridays are bad days for decisions, aren't they. We have to be careful what we say, that what we say reflects what we mean, and that what we mean reflects our obligation to be careful, i.e., care-filled. The river running under bands of ice, diamantine in the brief sun.
Not wanting to be the other's totem, blank screen, their lucky charm, but what about what they want? Cat gods spell "suggestion" M - U - S - T. Days away from work, a little lost, a little at loose ends. Unlocking the familiar, finding frost flowers praising the sun, light and what light makes passing through, the cosmos, the created.
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