My other question is why. Faint rose skies where the mountains blur. I left Ireland in a hurry, breaking a couple promises, nurturing grudges, full of sharp edges. In a way I was born in an Albany motel and died on a Vermont river bank.
Bald eagles at rest beside the pasture, studying me study them, in no rush to leave. Men with limps, of whom I am now one. Chrisoula finds a pair of comfortable shoes at the shelter where she volunteers, brings them home to me. A crystal is starlight frozen in time.
Selah? Down on our luck, what else is new. I remember learning how to track, not caring so much about the hunting aspect, loving this new way a text appeared for those with eyes to see. We smoked a lot of pot on the shores of Lake Champlain, stars wheeling through the sky, talked about world peace, social justice for women, bread recipes, the end of shopping, et cetera.
Is this writing in your mind or on your tongue? When I can’t sleep I sometimes go outside and listen to the river. Distributing flyers for the Green Party, cold and wet after, the eighties finally ending. Jesus was always an ally, mediating between my broken heart and his difficult Dad.
A bench outside the cemetery on which I made mental lists of everything I was grateful for. Please don’t say dusk “falls,” it’s obvious that it's always here. We drive through Bennington without talking, the marriage entering its next phase without any need to explain itself. Francis Bacon and purple again, again.
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