Monday, July 15, 2013

Not Unhealable

S. advised that when form grows comfortable, move away from it. As did B., very early in Vermont, when we shared an apple in a corner of the garden, joking we were Adam and Eve. Later she asked did I see her having babies and cried a little at no. What else?

Specificity gutters me. Learning new words is one thing, using them another. Unharvested rhubarb plants tower out back. Pigeons insist on something. Maps - old ones in particular - remain attractive.

One of the old chickens dies. The neighbor's party ends early and we dream of white flowers on slow-moving rivers. She comes in after midnight and we kiss with an urgency that is voluble. Touch follows and throughout, always, breath. Chickadees visit, and sparrows.

My love affair with the comma continues. Bolts of cumuli float gently overhead like unhurried cattle. Who is lovable is not unhealable. Summer passes without incident and also without funds. The way the poor touch in the dark is both lovely and grave.

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