Lines I Draw

Purple clover, dark against the burnt grass of late summer. I have these hands, they are open as in prayer, and empty as befits my new calling. 

What happened to the hot dog, how did it become so pedestrian? Beautiful violent men I have known.

Wind blows, the maple leaves turn upside down, silver in afternoon light. We got carried away with burying the dead, let's not kid ourselves.

Whistling. Dragonflies above the garden.

Jesus visits to say goodbye, thank me for listening, ask if there's anything else. The rules we keep around eating together, do you notice them, do you notice what gives rise to them. 

Talking to a woman who is no longer here, happily driving between mountains, no longer alone forever. Shall we listen to the rain together.

The joy of recognizing kin. Holiness forgets nothing because there is nothing to forget.

Combing through old photo albums, taking pictures of the dogs, something wild in me insisting that the past be liberated from images. Naked now is close to what.

Counting flowers in the meadow.  Chrisoula and I meet behind the church, same as always, she wears flowers and bracelets, studies carefully the lines I draw in the dust, she tells me what I mean.

There were other paths once, there are not now. He weeps often in the afterlife, he cannot bear his failure to repent, I cannot write this sentence in a way that will help him, will you.