There is a transparency to Life. It is in the nature of a very thin curtain in a very soft breeze. Piano notes come close, when the keys are understood as sexual.
And the sun falls slowly behind the hills, or seems to, and we go on in the old ways, singing familiar songs. I cannot bear what is casual any longer. Nor the mail which is only an excuse to avoid God.
At night, when the other sleep, I walk up and down the road, sometimes going into the forest, sometimes into the fields. The moon lights my way, or the stars do, or else I know the way and will walk it even after death. What opens and closes employs us as its hinge.
I come back to write: and to see who listens. Who listens responds, naturally and without effort. As the sound of the bell travels, and one travels with it, away over the hills, like a train.
Lovers do indeed come and go. The stream rises under the bridge, then falls back as summer begins. One thinks in terms of psalms, and foxes, and being held by women who ask nothing in return.
Or that is one way to see it. Midnight approaches, and the body insists on meeting the darkness naked. Words take us so far and no further.
Not all who ask are met at the altar and not all who answer can find it! My little prayers go up into the stars like smoke, like little children who know they are loved.