Nobody says anything anymore. Just shy of noon I finish a rosary, go inside and eat cold pork from yesterday.
We are dusted with time.
Robins perch on fence posts that lean awkwardly in sunlight, untended for many decades now. Dried stems of tiger lilies. Degrees of intensity. Dirt gods.
Densities of starlight so bright and wild that my heart expands unto infinity to encompass them.
Drawing the curtains, undressing, all under her watchful eye.
Kneeling to wash Chrisoula's feet, losing track of the time in my tears and gratefulness.
All night lost under the hemlock trees, swaying in light breezes, crying out unto the many entities crying out in turn to us.
Your letter arrived.
Lycanthropes, licenses, logjams, lust.
How shall we describe dying? How shall we weep when our eyes are become dust?
Goldfinches in the garden, grackles in the chicken pen. Gray skies telling a story in which in two hours or so it rains.
I shall make clothespins by hand, I shall absolve myself of sin.
The trail my love it widens.