At the Field's Edge

Not another word about kenosis! I dream of her and the next day she appears at work and we walk together outside talking about what is north.

Children playing near the water, how their energy - and the energy of the world - changes accordingly. Burning casinos. 

The weathered faces of barns that may not survive me. I would like to tell you what I have learned about forgiveness but what I have learned about forgiveness is that it doesn't need to be explained. 

After projection, reflection. I ask Chrisoula how she would describe our sex life, she is reading Of Mice and Men for the forty-seventh time since we met, her favorite book ever, "it's nice," she says without looking up. 

Parking the truck at the field's edge, laying blankets in the back, cooler full of cheap beer, stars flickering at the treeline, this too was growing up. A place for horses, i.e., my heart.

Clouds pass, they remind me of dogs passing. I remember bucketing out the basement, which storm was it, up all night in late winter, cold and wet, it had to be done, sometimes it doesn't matter what you want. 

Two a.m., can't sleep, head so bad even blinking hurts, is this what you wanted. I have been to Paris, I have been to Dublin, and the Heath Fair is better than both. 

Remembering whisky shots, Burlington Vermont full of rain, losing the argument, forgetting the argument. Time requires a body, as does an orgasm, but intelligence scaffolds differently.

The other night I confused the twenty sentences with fiction, walked around the house thinking, "it's a novel - I didn't know that - it's a novel," then woke up with these poems, thank Christ.

Hot peas with freshly-ground pepper, remember? Lifting you with my tongue - this sentence - into the heavens.