Friday, September 2, 2022

Someone at the Fair

Who made the light this way? Green scaling the south side of the barn, butterflies everywhere. It's a lie but the cosmos allows lies, stop pretending otherwise. Put it there, brother.

Buckets stacked just so for spring container planting. Goldenrod leans across the front path, the house looks abandoned the neighbors say, tell it to the bees and hummingbirds I mutter. Buddhist sensibility. He writes to ask about visiting, the note lingers, there is no bliss anywhere suddenly. 

All kisses are hungry is one way to think about it. We'll get there, okay, but when exactly? Imagine God again. Broth simmering all day Sunday.

Missing someone at at the fair, nobody else knows my loneliness. How happy we are now we are hippies. Home is where the heart is broken and cannot learn how to fix itself. Guitaring again.

Sitting outside at night, unable to hear anything but the ghosts insisting only death is real. Who lives in the middle of the mirror? Something settles when something else is allowed to be elegant. This map you keep insisting belongs to me, I do not think it belongs to me. 

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