A new place to feel pain. Flower arrangements encirling the coffin, lines going into and out of the church. A dumpster in Burlington Vermont in which all her letters were tossed, which I still see, the red, white and blue of the air mail envelopes disappearing in shadows. Who needs Spring?
Doing the dishes, staring at myself in the black window above the sink. One cries privately, knowing there is no bottom. The horses in moonlight, mid-winter. She moves the blankets how she likes them when I get up to write and it makes me sad, I can't say why.
Saying goodbye to dogs. On the one hand our minds hold only what they think with God, and on the other hand, even God is just an idea. What did she say when she hung up the phone? Dan and I hatching plans on a fire escape, a craziness in our living that was not meant for the long haul.
Read me, ride me, write me. The part of me that longs to rest grows tired and vast, like oil gliding over a hot cast iron pan. Jesus way out in the hinterlands, spreading sweet love. Imagining the lips on my throat are another's.
Tom Petty songs getting me through a difficult space. Cats nudge the door open, saunter in, curl up on the bed and sleep. Radios we built in our teens good for mostly static. Antique keyholes through which a little light streams, but enough, at this juncture, enough.
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