Making love in full view of the wasp's nest.
In 2016 I entered a swale - went down - and was brought eye-to-eye with demons whose lifebreath is nihilism, and whose clutches appeared as fucking to me, a confusion I am only just now escaping.
Listening to eggs fry. Fried bread with maple syrup.
At dawn, before the children awaken, I kneel and wash your feet, a 30-day ritual _____ asked of me, which I give gladly.
Waiting on the gallows, wind rustling our pant legs. Let us not overly worship the camera or its productions, okay?
Last of the coffee.
And summer ending, and certain loves.
We study the sideyard poplar as we do every summer before deciding not to cut it, as we do every summer. Neighbors slow in passing, small talk filling the space between us.
Eggplant parmagiana, gluten free pancakes.
Be a good symbiote!
Is one ever finished praying a rosary?
Truly, actually, whole-heartedly. Presently.
Thanks to the neighbors for helping - through allowance more than cultivation - a meaningful milkweed patch to grow.
Emily Dickinson in the river and not drowning. My heart is the river which does not know - but forever reaches toward - the sea.
We lock the doors, we "turn in," and this is love - at last it is love.