A little moon over the field, a little cloud to hit or miss it. An owl cries within arm's reach it seems - throaty ascension of tenebrous vowels - and farther away one answers. The dog is old and prefers not to walk all the way to the pond which makes me sad which - as always - confuses me.
The bluets instruct me to avoid secrecy now and give away as much as possible. To trust God is a form of love, a helpful form. Oh how tired I am, thinking of it all, of thinking at all . . .
Reliance on reciprocity in form remains problematic, a way of avoiding our useful teachers. One treasures silence, or is treasured in silence, or discovers in silence what they treasure. Wanting coffee, drinking tea.
I remember her pouring a glass of wine and holding it to the light and saying - as if surprised - "poetry is no longer my concern." Burlington Vermont I love you forever. There are times when a sentence won't do, not at all.
As there are times when we long to fall weeping and so do, and are accommodated thusly. Line endings perceived in terms of space, not time. Taking Frank O'Hara seriously has caused me many problems over the years and yet.
One stands on the porch and listens to foxes bark, their high yips like tearing envelopes. Fire is the father of the man I know best. North, always north.
Is it a sign of age that I perceive the lilac now in terms of the joy it offers bees? Snow White's optimism puzzles me even as her longing for happiness confirms a subtle interior shift.