Moonlight confuses the roosters, oddly. Narrative is what emerges when we perceive loss and need a bridge. At 4 a.m. the rain has an odd, a sort of ammonia smell to it. Once upon a time a man without shoes began writing twenty sentences a day and I am, still.
The coffee grows cold while I search for the right word. We also project onto others ideals and that, too, is a form of attack. How busy one's brain can be, like a moth trying to understand the light for which it would die! I wanted to tell the woman at the co-op it was okay but didn't because I could see that opening my mouth - regardless of what came out - would only confirm for her that it was not okay, and might never be again.
Summer passes and one remembers older summers as a means of keeping time. Sparse bluets near the stone wall and chunks of enviable quartz. I am never not in the mind of oxen. Writing projects that cannot be completed in a matter of hours confuse me and always have.
Perhaps one day we will meet in a yarn store. I am less impressed with the interstate highway system than some people I know. The dog studies the rainy window, her mind drifting to an intensity I can barely imagine. Some women say yes, that's all.
Resisting Christ by loving Jesus. One studies their need to be right and comes to a god that doesn't want to be seen. Minor arpeggios, rose petals, breasts. The morning hour stultifies, and once again the prayerless men ascend their humming gallows.