To Watch Someone We Love Crucified

In a dream Snow White passes, casually eating an apple. Suddenly all this green.

 

How glances travel, how we infer what we infer from them. Who will love the red blush of maple trees in early Spring on Sam Hill Road when I am gone?

 

The brook out past the horse pasture – the little one that loops the river – sings what can only be called a happy song at twilight. There is so much I have tried to make happen, and now I am just letting it go, now I am just letting what happens happen.

 

Overly-sweet coffee, a rare occurrence. Fish and chips at the diner, Friday afternoon before the dinner rush.

 

A lot of us have been crucified, but more of us have had to watch someone we love crucified, and this is another – a nontrivial – form of violence. When we agree on what we are wasting and on what to do to waste less.

 

Trout rising in the morning, how happy the man who once hunted them feels, now that he no longer hunts them. Healed minds don’t plan, which is so bonkers I can’t even think about it.

 

Tweaking a vegetarian burger recipe to include Worcestershire sauce. The bottom is falling out, nobody knows what to do, we’re going to have to get better at being helpful in local ways.

 

Neural connections inhibiting relationships. Certain letters, certain hopes.

 

The lure of this language grounded in our Saxon heritage. I only remember crying.

 

Gin and tonics in that street bar in Burlington, writing poem after poem, dizzy in ways that even now the art allows. It matters, knowing what a monster is.