I wake up in need of solace and a muttered prayer in tangled blankets is surprisingly sufficient. Later, poetry, an attempt at acceptance. The twenty sentences have a life of their own, all I do is follow. My glasses are too close to the desk's edge.
There are books that we lose, books that lose us, and all pay homage to the invention of movable type. Lit candles, drafts in the walls, and the smell of piss. Time passes is all one can say about it. Yet the morning tea sustains its grace through the second cup as if Heaven really is a state of mind.
Is reading an act of surrender, does it own any passivity? Subliminally, you're here for me, and you must know I'm grateful. I fall asleep asking for pleasant dreams and what I get is pedestrian, a few cats in the litter box and old students griping about sentence fragments. This ain't that.
In my early twenties I wrote that the stars were like holes in a fabric, implying that some greater light lay just beyond, and even now when I look up I remember that line, that poem, that image but I seem unable to connect to the man who understood its necessity. A moose at the pond's far edge. A deer leaping gracefully across the trail while the dog strained mightily at its leash. All the love that is available and what do we do?
Arrive at the tower and begin our slow depressing ascent. Or perhaps it was a cave in the desert, close to a spring that in summer was little more than a puddle. Nobody here doesn't believe in email, doesn't believe that death is real. Save me all over again.