Calling all crows. At four a.m. I get out of bed and stand naked and shivering in the darkness, unsure where I belong. How hard it is to read history!
I was not born and yet my mother and I sit with instant coffee and struggle to talk about Jesus. Clouds falling lower and lower. What are we but winter by another name?
I remember him fiddling while I played The Praties, how beautiful he was against the blue of Lake Champlain, and how sad I was that Denise was gone, apparently forever. Remember waking up and knowing it was the wrong bed? Coffee in Boston, late Fall.
Blood thrumming coming in darkness before silent witnesses indifferent to condemnation and approval. The later work of Tom Petty. Always the way shows itself, always my feet kick off their shoes and travel.
Silver hairs. Voices carrying across the lake. You face a difficult choice and I regret to say I cannot be the one who helps you make it.
Sitting through mass. Relationships that are outside time, briefly breaking through, like actors unexpectedly on the wrong stage. So it is a work of imagination then - thank you, I did not know this.
Pulling over to finish talking. Moon blurred by clouds: my brother, my lover, my killer.
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