What do you want the most?
Her letters came from England, they were long and hand-written, passionate and beautiful, I read and re-read them a thousand times, and in a nontrivial way, nothing has happened since.
Clouds move across the sky, the apple trees shiver.
I remember Sophia listening to Watts Brooks in the dark, then pointing at the water and saying quietly “god sounds.”
Wishing you were here to share a joint and watch Scooby Doo, reflect over ice cream on its cosmic connection to The Castle of Otranto.
“All I knew about awakening was that it meant digging graves,” or something like that.
Quartz in sunlight after rain showers pass, still the only thing I really need.
We spend an hour or so sitting under budding maple trees, talking about how we might redesign the chicken space, eventually realizing we have aged out of that.
Trudge drops off a dozen bales of mulch hay which we stack behind the barn.
Wind late at night, Chrisoula turning to throw an arm over me, which helps less than knowing that she means to help helps.
Merry go-rounds in late summer sunlight.
We who are watched through windows, unbeknownst.
Chrisoula and the kids surprise me by getting Box of Moonlight via interlibrary loan and we watch it together and later at night – when I am alone and the ghosts come – I cry quietly for the man I will never become because of the child I was forced to be.
“Would you say that’s red,” Chrisoula asked, pointing at a tractor in the far field and I answered “it is the color of the blood on the thorns that Christ wore while he was crucified,” to which Chrisoula responds, “god you can be tedious,” which made us both laugh.
For a long time I thought rewriting meant shortening, tightening, but now I see it has more to do with refusing conclusion, declaring beautifully one’s fidelity to infinite beginnings.
And did you, in the end, dig more graves than your father did?
We study the last half dozen chickens in the freezer, we wonder what is happening to us, to all of us, that this should be how they live and die and how we eat.
Women I have known who alone have made clear that Jesus is not fucking around.
I wrote poems entirely by hand until I was twenty-one or two, I think word processing screws up your intuitive sense of where a line ends, hence sentences.
In their apartment in Fall River it was possible to play dangerous games and I did, to my ongoing detriment I did.
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