Saturday, May 30, 2020

What if Sparrows are Warnings

Dust gathers. More and more space opens on the poetry shelves as I slowly discard, slough off, let go. Who knew how little you actually need for the final exam? The Lord is here, but a consistent recognition thereof drifts, apple petals on the river. Maybe in another life. Maybe in Albany.

Shogun as a pivotal transition from Tolkien towards another kind of reading, deeper and networked, the shallow Eastern influence rooting there, awaiting The Gospel According to Zen and so forth. When we rolled down the hill in tall grass, when we ate bologna sandwiches under the lip of the vast quartz rock. Silent calves whose bones grow brittle in the earth. Ask yourself: what would a genuine gift of love look like?

Something loosens in me, as if the problem all along were one of breathing. Bodies being bodies, until you can forget about them altogether, and then what. A wasp creeps along my arm until I kill it just shy of my wrist. Something borrowed, something through.

My life is arranged in order to allow me to read, which saved me at a difficult time: this is healing. What if the sparrows are warnings? At night I walk a long time in darkness finding the only church that will have me.

Wind just as the sun rises, a careful attempt to use the phrase "sun rises," and memories of Chrisoula in the summer of 94. Yet peace in its way continues to elude me. "Rise, shepherd," say the ten thousand lambs comprising - for now - the unfollowable joy we call "the soul." 

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