The nights lengthen. My sleeves extend to my wrists, then beyond. Like does nothing. Yet I am home again, breathlessly.
Onions roughened with dirt. Knocking sounds under the bed are kittens knowing which box holds yarn. Remember negatives, remember camera stores.
Circling cornfields in late August. A time for singing passes songlessly, and we are in a new place, one that declines to be named. There are drugs which bring about forgetfulness, which is a kind of ease. Blessings.
The chickens stab fallen apples with their beaks, and we console ourselves with this almost-last, sweet meal. Your search for holy arises in the context of a belief in sin and error, extended visits to purgatory.
Trumpeter swans. Catbirds.
Walking north on Fairgrounds Road I pause by a decrepit maple, older by at least a century that I am, and talk to it about death. I see you on all fours but I am not in the room, and never will be again. Word games again.
I love you again, a love which baffles and astounds me, threatens to end me. Kneeling on the old zafu in the hayloft crying "now Buddha, now."