Apple blossoms just visible from the bedroom window where I make myself write. Something blurs in me, or softens. This lifelong inability to discern between bird song and morning, as if the one were the other, or discernment altogether were an illusion. The many uses to which "care" is put. Caution.
Crashing? Always the sense one is moving into a vacuum, a tremulous future, a horizon that is unlike anything you've ever known. Once I did. What does so-and-so want to hear vs. what do you need to say vs. what happened? Heat rises in the parking lot and a crushed Dunkin cup scuffs between cars. I try too hard to not try too hard.
Iced coffee in Brattleboro near midnight - walking by the river - the end of our friendship still a few years distant - under stars.
Sick sometimes, or worried, or just tired and "relax, I'll get to it." Dandelions in the backyard where we work silently building a fire pit from found material. Sentence structure becoming a challenge again or is just that all our living is spiral, expansive, repetitious.
In the garden, near where the kale comes back, half a robin's egg, its luminous blue mocking my insistence on the Lord. I did not ever want to be kissed good night (for good enough reasons) and so became a man who wonders what it's like to be kissed goodnight. How silent the inside of a mailbox is when the moon is full.
And the moon, and her shoulder, and the tides of us.