Lifelong, yeah right. Morning passes working on poems, just not this one. A sudden influx of prisms, the mind insisting on symbolizing its fundamental nature.
Wading into the fire pond to smash the beaver trap. When we whisper in public, what are we implying about trust? Chrisoula hummed “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head” as we left the theater, light rain on our shoulders, the way forward settling faster than either of us had expected.
Peasant food, basically. My hands age, skin crinkly and loose, they remind me of driving in Vermont with my father. All judgment fails.
When we were cold, long ago. Jesus understood. Women who murdered snakes, wrestled sheep to the ground, cut potatoes by hand with the knife to their thumb, smoking each cigarette to the filter.
A preference for errors rather than sins, correction rather than punishment. I miss having friends, I really do. Amaretto coffee with cream.
How happy I was, briefly trembling with joy in the hay loft, the light a certain way, all the pains by which my body knew itself suddenly gone. Let us bow our heads and give thanks for gasoline rainbows. It’s a bridge, you cross it, what’s the hold up?
Waiting on what will be revealed. A rustling in tall grass, moonlight reminding you of what you forgot, all those many years ago.
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