Temperatures drop, skies clear and I walk to the river to star-gaze. In the distance, traffic groans where Route Nine slopes west. Can I tell you a secret?
Yesterday is not different, not even a thousand yesterdays are different. The larger horse's feet are like diving bells or coffins. Your nipples rise to my kiss.
Night is a manger, the soul a bale of hay. If you are quiet in certain places or with certain people, you can hear the Lord profess His love for you, soft as rustling moth wings. I am working through my problem with what it means to remove one's belt.
Trout rise even in winter. After my wedding ring was lost hunting pheasants on the Jones Lot we went to a little Hindu store in Brattleboro and bought a replacement for ten dollars. The difficult illusion that we call "choice."
At a late juncture one contemplates the maneuvers implied by a long-distance love affair. A tendency to see the world as if it were watercolor. Forgotten glasses of wine emptied in the morning.
Sin with intelligence, intention, with grace. A thousand years didn't lessen our devotion, it's hard to see how a thousand miles can do any worse. So I'm confused sometimes, so what?
Moonlight exacerbates our habit of seeing meaning where there isn't any. We hold hands under the table, we profess our love in ways that nobody else can see.