The curtains billow in breezes coming from all directions. I am happy for you, and also grateful. The dog - somewhat later than usual - comes out of the forest panting. Thus this.
Pumpkins on the periphery of thought because one sees them in late September and early October. One blurs the relationship between cause and effect. Though I wait on the mail, the mail never comes. And yet.
He thinks of her often, usually while walking, but sentences about her - or for her - do not arise the way they once did. Forget what you're doing and focus on healing. I forget the names of all the bushes we transplanted. Thus this, for you.
I bear a difficult silence, only lately understood as negotiable. Enormous books ask to be read. One smells dust and mildew and sees a slant of light in which the faintest of faint blues is visible. The lake before dawn, a thousand miles away.
We were made for a hidden chapel, you know. I broke faith too easily for too long and may no longer pray on my knees. Songs compose themselves in the valley of rhymes. The women who don't read me are the ones who help me most.