Waiting on snow, nothing left to do. In Advent we study homelessness, the condition of the one who cannot help but seek God.
In the attic sweeping bat shit, studying briefly the knife my father's father gave him, which he gave to me, which has not been sharpened in decades.
We name our lovers, we grow our own food, we buy nothing new.
We are not afraid of each other.
Making coffee in morning darkness, going outside with it to say goodbye to the stars, carry hay to the horses, gaze at frozen gardens, and remember - or forget to remember - to pray.
Alert to what communes with us in order to be brought forth through us.
Chrisoula and I make love in early darkness, I kiss her collarbone, fill her gently, and after she cries over all the pain in the world, tucked against me while I touch her hair, murmur her name, my cock softening and drying, night floating away, the world a husk, the whole world floating away, oh Lord make me worthy of your daughter.
Beyond all promises, beyond all vows: beyond all beginnings. Forgiving the child in me who became the young man treasuring hurt and anger in me who became the husband who refused all plowshares in me, who is forgiven in me. Alleluia, alleluia.
Melanie says I should publish more and I laugh, what's so funny she asks, I tell her the truth, the cosmos is publishing me, it publishes everything, welcome to the anthology I say, welcome to the shared sentence of life, rejoice!
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