"First comes the temple, then comes the city" but that's not right either, is it. And the door opens and you see what? Even in dreams, this healing occurs.
Perhaps consider paragraphs again? We visit the Smith College Museum of Art, later get ice cream at Herrels, finish with iced coffee for the drive home, just like in the old days, om shanti shanti shanti. Let us work on the confusion together yes?
Don't brag so much about being a good writer, it is relatively speaking a new art. One teases out a helpful disclosure. Hemlock trees passing too fast, may I never forget to be grateful.
Sex collapses into communion, let us pray. At night in summer the stars blur and disappear, something old comes up from the river to sit with me on the back stairs, I'm no longer scared, just sad at how long I was scared. A long talk about death with the dying.
The interior pilgrimage never ends. A prehistoric religious emphasis on menses in which our existing worship is seeded. The uncles I don't talk about.
Talk is cheaper than writing - is this true? Scanning for signs of crisis, finding them, all living becoming responding to them, somehow needing to live this way, why. Ma and I walking out back, Dad's meadow full of goldenrod on which uncountable bees work, the pauses in our dialogue filled with a low hum indistinguishable from love.
What it is like to be naked now that Christ has come. Reliving the hard parts one last time.
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