Monday, January 19, 2015

Black Bears in January

Coming back through fields at 3 a.m. thinking my blood must be thinning or I'm getting soft or what because the damn cold keeps my head down and I don't see a thing but only hear from time to time the wind and the trees creaking like old men at odds with their bones. There - I said it. Hoping with or against hope? Or do blessings emerge independent of what one thinks and allows to fragment in words? Where the road dipped - where a month back or so I fell and hobbled for weeks, making the kids laugh but oh how difficult sleep became, and lifting - a certain star began to pulse in the sky, north and a little east, like a radio signal or a shot glass of gin when the lights are turned on suddenly. In its radiance my whole body thrummed and thought was sublimated like black bears in January. You make the shape of angels, you explore the divine plenitude implied by comma splices. You scratch a list on which the words "discipline," "maybe" and "order" figure prominently. Your last letter came and left me full of longing, like moonlight on roses in the nineteenth century. I wouldn't want to be more or better, now or anywhere else. What a forbidden light you were, what a kiss to go without.

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