In writing, solace. In Spring - sometimes - mercy.
The children's voices rise muffled through bending floorboards, the whole house shifting as we speak. At night, stars trace invisible patterns in the sky, like lines on a vast palm.
What opens, closes, and what closes, opens. Back to Derrida, back to Barthes. Back to Foucault's The History of Sexuality. Back to the door.
Writing is a kind of salve, a voice in which parents and teachers and priests hide, and a pointer towards reading, which is the true salve. Hostas, forsythia, blue flag.
What shall we say to babies born today? Bitter revolutionaries.
Avoiding at all costs monologic ontologies. How we sound making love and laughing together after. Run off, the far side of the river, and spring peepers. Psalms.
In Spring one remembers what rises again. Where joy is absent, love remains oppressed. Prayer, prisms, probability.
Light the way it is, and the way it is not, which we say it is, to our detriment.