Summer lengthens like a hand-sewn sleeve. Sparrows in the pasture by the horses, other birds already gathering in loose flocks, the travel impulse ever upon us. Whatever you want, ask for it now, or you'll never get your peace, I mean piece.
How a certain tree in the distance leans, as if readying itself for an ax. Imagine being the last to know you're Christ, everybody just hanging around waiting for the obvious to dawn on you. At a late juncture, declining yet another effort to understand what an eigenform is.
I got your back, Judas! Honeybees in the clover, swallows in the air above the garden. The lies we tell to comfort children, which therefore are not lies but truth beyond the semantics of judgment.
So I am wrong about death, what else might I be wrong about. How swiftly the clouds shift in appearance, every time I look up I am re-reconstructed. No dog, no trail seems to be the law, at least in my neck of the woods, we'll see.
How after our first hug I turned from you and you reached for my shoulder, impulsive but shy, frightening me, hastening my steps away, was anything ever any truer. The river took three things, can you name them? Kisses at the beginning, kisses in the middle, kisses at the end.
Thanks for the peonies this year or did we already say that? You are like the perfect tour guide to Boston who inexplicably is lost just outside the city lines. Cold egg salad, better even than ice cream.
One turns to the monster, offers to make a deal. The apple trees trembling, the sunflowers swaying, the bee's wings shimmering, everything alive in ways that testify to love, was this what you wanted, you who never say what you want.
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