There is a moon at the beginning of November that I have to look at alone. Not alone but with the God you alone could teach me to see. The truth of this works for nobody so far as I can tell but there is a Light beyond triviality. I'm trying, woman - does it matter at all?
It's getting colder than makes sense, as if winter were looking for a sacrifice and I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time. I study the garden with my whole body now because doing so hurts and the hurt reminds me not to fuck around. It matters - of course it matters.
Who let the dog in? Who let the calf die?
Why is it so hard to make a good soup?
A child learns some fucked-up lessons and some good-enough lessons, and it's on them to figure out which to live by. Yet why force yourself to make decisions on a breaking limb? Why not pray to the God you're okay not understanding?
She puts her hand on me in a way I am tired of pretending matters. We are all beautiful is the winning move in the Game of the Image. Of course it's about the Mother, of course She is the Cosmos, what nightmare did you think I was waking up from? History? Plato's stupid cave?
Midnight on my knees in moonlight, alone again. Thanking with all my heart the one who dreams me into existence over and over. All that fire in the divine furnace she insists I insist is not her body.