Perhaps we are all just ornaments? Little streams of light that are stars.
Holy octopuses visit, remind me of my promise to relax and let them handle things. We meet in a little room after dinner, he is gentle and kind, he refuses all my attempts to place him over me.
Untucking my shirt, remembering how Denise used to unbutton it slowly, then bend down to suck my nipples. Smiles floating on the lake, the lake floating in our mind, our mind a brief fire in the void.
We are not songless but shoeless, get the analogy right! Those of us who seek answers, as if questions are an insult to the cosmos.
What we learned about war in the twelfth century which we really need to forget. We are growing Hubbard squashes this spring, we are not killing pigs, we are entering without fanfare through the east gate.
How quiet one can be near the river! My open heart, its livid flame, these wraparound thorns, each one marked by my savior’s name.
Malvina Reynolds songs, which I used to sing to Sophia when she was little, which still from time to time echo in leftover neurons slowly blinking out. Sunlight on the crest of hills which I insist are shared with Emily Dickinson.
It’s always Lent in this heart, brother. I remember how I got good at hiding, accepted as normal the danger of family.
Roads both in and out of the village. Later, unexpectedly, snow begins so we move the horses’ hay, talking to them in low tones, this love we share unto which weather is irrelevant.
My cluttered soul, bereft of any helper. Guns I still hear, fists I still feel upside my head, will I never be safe, will the one who will make me safe never find me.
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