A little rain before the sun rises, a soft percussion where land slopes south. Night given to fits of sleep and admiring foxes, the neighbor's chickens down at least a dozen hens, the dog and I stretched out on the floor to breathe. Forgive us what we do and what we don't do as well, okay?
In the morning I walk three miles, stopping once to study the field where last night a trio of deer leaped away from me at dusk, and once to talk to T. about "the sorry ass state of public education." The impossible yellow of golden rod is all the proof of God one needs! Please understand that what you long for with respect to me is already yours without exception or qualification because you gave it to me.
Last week at the lake we talked about gaps in our cultural maps and at what point does one simply resign to not reaching this or that particular territory. The pickle recipe I invented last weekend while sitting under the poplar trees, drunk and humming Nearer My God to Thee, turned out better than anyone - including me - expected. We are the moon we remember.
Retying the clothes line, the old maple tree to which it's linked bit four times by lightening and nearly rotted out now. Three nights in a row I have dreamed of women for whom I have not done enough work. The reading list grows thin the closer I get to what is.
How tired I am of soothing myself with photographs! Oh Maria Callas my arms are neither big enough nor strong enough but for you they are always open. As summer ends, snakes fill the basement, each one of which I rescue and carry in my hands a good quarter mile toward the brook before releasing.
The letter remained on the table a long time, speaking to us quietly where we were saddest. There are old wood piles knotted with clematis, there are stars that you have never seen. Nakedness flaring on folded sheets, clouds pressing up against the glass.
And so the autumnal duende begins. One finds the expression, one learns its justification.