Saturday, February 26, 2022

When Turtles Surface

Back steps creaking in mid-winter cold. How bleak the heart can seem before the world awakens and you are alone carrying hay to the horses. My heart, that blind chickadee.

Who steals the moon from the sky? We go forward with narratives, eventually realizing we have to choose one or two and commit to telling them better. Hansel living alone in an unfamiliar city, accepting his calling to write, wondering why every poem and story he writes features a woman stronger than he is. 

You finish the coffee, you begin another poem. How soft the sky is a few minutes after dawn, as if there really is such a thing as being born again. I wonder what kind of kisser you are, I really do.

New Tarot decks making new demands on my lust which is hard to explain but trust me. Icicles on the window eaves and other love letters from Christ. Eating by hand in the dark.

Night is a billows through which I travel in a saffron robe, now and then stopping to make love to men and women who are not fellow travelers but farmers. Do you want the end of loneliness or just another respite, right? I remember my first bird feeder and how it helped me understand the relationship between conflict and hunger. 

Another old man making clear my way is governed mostly by women. That feeling of just before you come, the center of you shifting, light breaking as when turtles surface in still blue ponds. It's never an error to sing, the tune carries you not the other way around.

Being a man who takes amethyst seriously. What happens when you leave the trail, according to the trail?

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