One is given to epistolary gestures. Meaning that is at one's behest. Dented guard rails, mice bones.
Wrapped in the old quilt, shivering on frosty grass, staring at the moon. A bower of mist, a memory of ghosts. We have to get beyond all systems and also Jesus.
Deep hush of owls. The mind returns often to glistening roadside mica. The nexus, then, between power and creativity.
Ten a.m., last swallow from the last bottle of wine, newspapers burning in the old pit. Shattered quartz, watery crystal. A trip North, long longed for at last in memory.
A letter unopened for seven years owns what relationship to death? Huddled in freezing dark, laughing at religiosity. Followers whispering in the dim alcove.
Your ash is my apple wood rosary. Headlines return to air, words to silence, all mirroring the relationship between darkness and light. Given to sentences, given to judgment.
The trap now is baited. We wait, wordy twice over, never growing the wiser.