Making love as a step unto the altar where the beloved is burned utterly and nothing remains but the Lord.
At night, silence is broken by spring frogs and the hushed river and occasional traffic on Route Nine.
There were pilgrims here once, beholden to concepts of God I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Before kids, we camped a lot, made love outdoors in the middle of the day - in fields, on the sides of mountains, the banks of rivers, and in an apple orchard in Whately once, giddy as dusk fell on our golden bodies.
Looking up old lovers on Facebook and Google and finding nothing, as the women I have loved and not forgotten were headed somewhere different than this patriarchal hellscape and its technological catalog.
Last of the hams.
Willingness, humility, allowances.
Light enters and finds each nook within us.
The history of baseball, the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln's education growing up, Parson Weems, plantation culture in eighteenth century America, coffin ships, Africa.
Longing saying "okay, you got me - I suck - go ahead and be done with me" and so you commence longing for the end of longing, for what comes after longing.
Cold beers out in the pasture, cows coming and going around us, talking about our wives, our families, how everything here has changed but us.
Dust motes in sunlight which the boy wept being torn away from.
Certain Stevie Nicks songs.
Twenty minutes until we have to go, and other promises we failed to keep.
Rip cords, umbilical cords, extension cords.
The heart a desert in which only certain can survive.