Sleeping through various alarms, yet another sign the cosmos are shifting in this weary body. Shivering at night by the river, searching for starlight in the passing water, same old dream as when I was little. Let love be our epitaph. Beyond where language makes any sense at all.
Butternut squash soup, chicken broth from the chickens, squash and spices from the garden, a true happiness. Shall I call this heart amethyst since that’s kind of what it is? The dialogues which gently conclude, the dialogues that nervously begin. Oh moon, you are always playing games with me, when I was a boy we were best friends, are you saying it's okay to begin again.
Telephones ringing in other rooms. A sentence lives complexly in ways lines can not, this was the revelation. There is no such thing as a bland landscape or have you forgotten what your knees are for. Birch trees in the distance, God’s bones.
Last of the coffee. There are, it turns out, additional vows which we take quietly in the hay loft, facing the windows in which apple trees soften in the roseate dawn. Wanting a simpler spiritual practice is not a crime. Warnings we are predisposed to heed.
My grandmother, my drinking, this drama I cannot avoid. Saint Jude pray for us. Distance was always the right guide, is it clear now. These lips and who they have kissed.
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