A curious quiet - or stasis - as if I had no heart at all. Yet there in the dark, what else would I could reach for? The idea of Christmas, a whiff of October bonfires. I am - I am always - letting my dreams do the interpreting.
In the bad dream my mother - diminished in stature but bright as a sequin - offered the only sane advice. Beyond which was darkness, malevolence, all of which I did to myself. When did my life become a spinning shingle in a knowing wind? Jenny with her dress, Michael carrying an iris, and then Joe coming after to tell me that he accepted now that my brother was dead.
You make a list and Christ recedes just that much. Which is to say, where can I find a house in which tendril clouds and intelligent hearts reside? Who was bearded who was complicit. I neither know nor care about the subjunctive.
Shoot me, I'm organized. In the dream, the old house was a different house and yet it was the same which reflects what creative impulse? Pins and needles and wine-stained fabric. Oh my grace I seem indeed to have lost my best hiding place.
You are silent, which is to say playful, which is to say taking delight in the Lord. A thin body against which all the world's rage was to no avail. Did I mention my broken heart, did I go so far as a fetish? You are right when you remind me about loving the unraveled.