Time to visit the well below the valley, time to go with my woman to the entrance to the Cave of the Heart, time to meet my lover beneath apple trees in August moonlight, time to say to Jesus, "okay, yes, I get it, I will, yes."
Those moans at the end, those little whimpers beginning.
I forgave Dad, it was easy, and he was grateful and I knew then that he had forgiven me too, it was just hard to notice, being so caught up in the Sean narrative.
That look on your face, who is its author.
So much of the Savannah lives in us, you close your eyes sometimes and feel what it felt to be at the beginning, when we were just figuring out holding hands.
Let us not ignore the clitoris nor our ignorance about the clitoris nor our gratitude for the Creator for creating the clitoris.
That which by necessity is unexplored.
Not forsaken exactly, yet also not bound to coming back whole.
Eating what does not want to be eaten, welcome to eating.
Beneath the sunflowers, in cool dust, a toad.
Driving east through Ashfield, past a field full of sandhill cranes, and that farm we both like, the one with peach trees up and down the long curving driveway.
Witches are female says language.
Dreaming of a well-lit Christmas tree, opening the gift beneath it that bears my name, finding nothing inside but the void, and looking up gratefully at the giver only to find she has been eaten by the Goddess of Bees.
We never got around to certain promises you made.
Second or third time I made love to a woman it was on a stairwell - carpeted stairs, after midnight, we were a little drunk and had to whisper, it was an early example of my desire to render location a conflict sex was responsible for overcoming.
Tea with devout gnostics, is there any other hell.
Being cannot be reduced yet is forever in-between - you can say it but when you meet one who knows it - who lives according to the living brought forth thereby - your living will shift in noticeably nuanced ways.
Even the cosmos are basically a construction we are ill-equipped to evaluate for truthiness.
Late afternoon rain, tomatoes and bread on the back porch, the man I am with the woman who called me out of childhood to this little homestead in this little valley, may I never forget to be grateful.
Post a Comment