It rains and I wallow in the raining of it, unwilling to hurry now towards grace. Be not confused! The new hay is greenish if you squint, and lighter in your arms, but the horses are happy, so nobody complains. One accelerates towards orgasm, comes hard in her, and after feels hollow and lonely, between women, and done, mostly, with sex. Going out to help cut trees down two farms over, as if the body were trying to figure out its place in the world, and the kitchen (and the pantry off the kitchen) weren't it.
In enormous lilac bushes outside the town offices, robins pursue one another in light rain. Quietly judging the neighbor's houses, knowing that to do so is to judge one's own self, and helpless apparently not to. Be not given to the emphasis on joy as "getting what you want." Trees fall and we make quick work of them, dividing the burn pile mostly without speaking.
My hands are mostly braids of smoke now.
The one upon whom you project all that ecstasy struggles to sustain the burden, her already-fine writing growing finer, clearer, more helpful. Apparently we can fail, apparently we can lose! One begs forgiveness now because as a child then they did not.
This is what I know, here in this body struggling to discern pleasure from pain, joy from sorrow, and what is true from what is false.
My body hurts in ways I cannot name, and thus goes on unhealed. Desire remains a poor guide. What is whole cannot be ruined, what can be ruined was never whole.
Morning then: this morning.