Off in the Hayloft

Cast iron left out all night how much colder will it get before the end. We travel together to Cape Cod, we never run out of things to say, we don't say everything anymore. Be my baby tonight.

Sipping coffee instead of meditating, listening to the occasional eighteen-wheeler grind down Route Nine thataway. Made like this for no reason in particular, what happens happens, it's okay to be happy, it's okay to tell a story in which we are happy. Your body is a church unto microbial congregations.

Cheap Trick in the mid-eighties, turns we don't take. Fionnghuala tells a friend that Tarot is a kind of evolving picture book for one's life, Chrisoula jokes "somebody's work is done here." Who else is sick of zucchini.

Light sifting through glass bottles, crystals and prisms, one does love a crowded pretty space. Kisses are context! She jacks me off in the hayloft, we can't stop laughing after, how happy we are together, remembering the cause for optimism. 

It won't kill you to be a bit more facile with metaphors. Back roads full of turkeys and deer. Not even my father could say what had happened to the past, it was that kind of mystery.

Making her a fire, that old art. Looking but not touching. While in another sense, we can only be said to exist in language itself.

Waiting not knowing the prayer has already been answered. Bats fill the dusky sky, draw the flannel closer.