Curious Mostly, Without Intent

Seriously, who has enemies? Venus between maple branches almost touching the eaves. The ghost of the minister who oversaw the house’s construction sometimes visits, curious mostly, without intent. I sleep in for once, wake to Chrisoula having made me coffee before leaving, a note tucked into my favorite mug. Bawling sheep two houses down. You let go and suddenly there’s this hand reaching for you through the cosmos, all you have to do is close your eyes and let it lift you. Reading William Corbett poems, the Vermont ones, sad he’s dead, grateful I found his work when and where I did. Communion wafers, what a scam. Happy kids whose happiness is predicated on having no real idea what’s going on but you have to love them so I do, happily. Rethinking the argument in favor of arguments. A view of cardinals in the hemlocks I wish I could share. A better question might be who has secrets and start dissembling from there. Dancing in shitkickers, then unlacing and removing them in order to twist. How scared of me certain of my teachers were, and how I did not know this until many years later. This is the end yes but of what exactly?