It has to do with Desire

In the mind of holly and snowfall, that's all. Minor chords, nobody listening.

One gathers their self at the window, it has do with distance and penetrable surfaces, it has to do with desire. Stray cats on Main Street.

Pulling over in Windsor, heart racing bright tears, step by step through forgiveness, getting it right enough to drive again. You can call it anything, why not call it a prayer?

In the dream Dad and I are on the porch of the house in Hanover where I learned Grandpa died, and Dad is quiet and calm, he is dead but he is not dead, he asks if it is okay to leave, I say yes and wake up and all day he is everywhere in me, this man through whom my life flows like a eucharist. She says at the party the only gospel worth reading is Mark and Chrisoula leans in on me to murmur "let it go, Sean, let it go." 

By itself the phrase "the numbers don't add up" is false. ACIM's insistence that Heaven is a decision means what regarding time and space?

Who has time anymore for grudges, me, that's who. I remember sitting with my mother in a parking lot near Cape Cod, two years ago or three, watching seagulls pick at chicken bones, she was talking about what Dad thought about family and I was trying hard not to show how scared I was.

There is something slippery in the culture, we are all falling away. Jesus being mostly mythological.

Grinding through the sentences, wondering how it came to this. Butterfly wings opening, the whole prayer of us enveloping the world, undoing everything, including us.

Watching Jack, the blind horse, walk slowly - elegantly - up from the lower pasture to the fence line to be fed, how can anybody find fault with God ever. Trout shadows, I've always been lucky.

Rain on my tongue. God is what you forget until you stop insisting on remembering.