Communion at the Bottom

That moment when you realize you have no home. A wind that means rain. Fleasbane. Would you eat a wolf?

What is a lover in the end but a living example of what commas do in sentences? I prayed to God to let me taste loneliness and - late but not too late - fear I may have overdone it. Swimming through mist. Slipping a hand under her shirt, resting a thumb on her nipple, she closes her eyes, hitches a finger through my belt loop, pulls our hips together.

Who doesn't want to get it right? Distinctions which are oddly helpful at demonstrating the futility of difference at all. Less rain that we expected. "I don't think of you that way" - okay but why.

Buddha obscured by grass, the prayer flags bled to gray. Being is communion. At the bottom of this shared investigation into projection what do you find, is what you find a bottom? Making space for one's feelings, letting them work themselves out the way wind spirals through the pasture.

Nothing does not hide. You remember stuff, it feels like this is an argument for the past but it's not, it's just the present remembering possibility in a form you can manage, observer that you are. In a dream he mocks me for not following through with music and I wake flustered, is this what you want? Fucking at a Vermont rest stop, 89 North, want to.