In a dream Dad leaves me a note: "Dear Sean, you already know how to grieve, I taught you this, Love Dad." Sunlight blurs the horizon waking up. I will never have what I want, thus this loveliness, thus this suffering.
I went for long walks as a child - farther into the forest than children are meant to go alone - and learned what you learn when you meet, are eaten by, and yet survive somehow the witch. Is a sentence intelligent, is a flower? There's something in your eyes that makes it clear we're finished hiding.
What is "all the way" now anyway? Glasses off means no longer knowing what bird is in the maple tree, unless it's a cardinal because even blind I know cardinals. She trespasses, lays graffiti on the cathedral and come stains in the sanctum, all to make clear there are neither sanctums nor cathedrals, thus liberating my captivated, confused-about-salvation soul.
Snow falling in parts of the landscape I betrayed. It's like Vermont is a two-syllable prayer. Who needs saving again?
It's a relief to know that we are at last beyond the argument, beyond suspicion. Deer work together, a cooperative intensity we can't imagine. The war zones we worship, the peace plans we scuttle in hotels we can't afford.
Church reaches the bedroom - spills its rituals and stained glass on the sheets - and now what? There are depths of beauty I still cannot manage. Begging the dispensation of non-existent Gods, knowing it's all futile, and yet.
So I left Emily Dickinson staring at an empty table, so what? Whose hunger, whose meal, and who counts the sparrow choking on these bitter crumbs?