Made safe for what is nocturnal. We discount her tears, focus on arguments for and against, determined to be guided by reason: that old dream. Sitting on the back porch, late winter, stoned in the way I used to be when I was young, that is to say, full of wonder and joy, the river humming beyond the horses, the stars doing little pirouettes in the heavens, and this wish – this desire – to remember an ancient secret.
Making the world safe for pollinators. Sold the land, left a few wind chimes hanging here and there in the forest, who knows. Fern-shaped orgasms. Trying to explain that television is a sterile extension of fire, you have to go out into the world, you have to learn to stoke the flames yourself.
What is sacred, safe, saturated, sent. In my dream, the city is ruined, blasted and empty, not even stray dogs left, not even rats, and I walk through it singing a song in a language I forgot that I knew how to remember. We’re like ripples, kind of, kind of like eddies. I buy her chocolate, leave it in the kitchen where she’ll find it, it’s not enough, not even close, but willing as always to risk dancing in the disco of forgiveness.
This sorrow-flavored life. My father often saying “God hates a coward,” which I believed for a long time. Summer nights following the river deep into the woods, staggering through risky currents, dipping into moonlit pools, dreaming of women I have yet to meet. Something is opening in me, something is saying we are ready to remember what we are in truth.
It’s hard to read the bible, gets harder by the day. What are we if not communal is the question we cannot quite bring ourselves to answer. Watching her walk, getting off on it. Skunk passes by – pausing when he notices me noticing him from the porch – but I tell him we’re good, it’s okay, and so he ambles on, my beautiful brother disappearing in shadows.
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