Sunday, April 21, 2013

Raked By Insatiable Hunger

One steps outside - beneath Spring stars - and she is there, waiting. The lilac bush extends the rigid folds of its leaves, smooth and hard as the carapace of June bugs. Chickadees shift in the shadows of pines. You walk and she follows, speaking quietly.

The brook quietens in late April. In the forest, rocks groan, pressing the soil and close up, the fine silt of their effort glistens. One longs for the moon in the presence of stars, one heeds the interior gnomon. The dog races ahead, fanning east to west in a broad arc, and sometimes tracks back, as if to ensure the center remains in motion, pointed north.

She compasses what distance cannot manage. When I am not with her, I want to be, and when I am, I long to be at the temple her presence suggests is both tangible and near. How long must one stumble through the marketplace, coins falling from their fingers, raked by insatiable hunger? Near the pond, at last, the sweet cry of peepers, the call to creation, electrifies what is forever outside the senses.

The past is never not at hand, and what is new is always being forced into ideals. An empty bookshelf is perhaps a sign of wisdom! Coming back, one pauses to admire the milky way, the semen-colored strip of sky, the great seam one longs to open, the loveliest proof, the most intimate design. She takes my hand, she offers tea.

As always, lonely is what lonely does. I make coffee and come to my corner to write. The sentences lift me, each its own breath. With her consent, the dense matter of my body continues its affair with form.

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