I am a turtle dreaming he is a contemplative biped. Hemlocks decked with snow, the house shifting a little when the heat comes on. Will we ever understand Little Big Horn?
A cross awaits me and I live in complete fear of it. All these chairs on which we sit waiting. What will happen to this little chunk of amethyst when I die?
A woman who brought no gift but instead went shopping, and thus revealed the cosmos. Trick questions (and tricky answers) abound. In the morning your note arrives and I lose track of time reading and re-reading it.
How the hippies represented a new order. Sleet pelting the windows, writing all morning when I meant to be still. Shall we read yet another book on gut health?
In a dream, a woman I used to know does not want to speak to me, tries to get away as I talk, and I am confused by this but not sad, end up alone studying my empty hands. What will we know by mid-February that we do not know now? No more descriptions please.
Driving home on salt-streaked macadam, remembering going down on Melissa in the back of the pickup, early eighties and both of us kids still, her hips lifting a little, starlight soft on the back of my neck. Are we simply between motels? Chrisoula turns in her sleep, the cats all shift, and still I cannot move but only lay there in the darkness, begging an alien God to forgive me.
Be liquescent? One begins to study their fascination with pastels as a medium, fearful as always of what appears soft, yielding, indeterminate, et cetera.
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