The prayer is: Mother I want to see you.
My left arm hurts and can't be lifted. Warblers sing to each other in the lengthening twilight, a loveliness I can just bear.
Narratives in which apple trees predominate.
We leave as if nothing bad has happened. In a sense - a nontrivial sense - the temple never fell in the first place. Gunshots persuade the horses to come back to the fence line closest to the house.
The many pornographies of which we are comprised.
The prayer is also ongoing, mutual, unconcerned with its reception. Interpretative dance projects.
Self-aversion as a strategy for inner peace.
The outdoor oven - which has not been used in almost a decade - softens with blurry mosses.
Remember jitterbugs: it is the dance that makes the dance floor, not the other way around.
Low-flying military planes to which I extend a middle finger, which annoys the neighbor who's a cop, who comes over and asks me to show some respect, to which I suggest that exercises of free speech constitute respect, which only exacerbates our difficulties, which I knew would happen, which Chrisoula reminds me, to which I mutter "but still" to which she replies by kissing me on the cheek, right there on Main Street in full view of everyone watching the dispute and really, what other joy will suffice?
I mean, yes, I really did go to Ireland but also, really, isn't Ireland - aren't we all - a state of mind?
Buckling under sundry pressures.
As night begins - as twilight ceases to be a relevant category - we begin to see a soft pink on the eastern horizon, barely noticeable - maybe not even there save in a sentence - but still.
Two cups of coffee, a mental note to read Camille Paglia again, and a lot of mutual praise.
This is the end, amen.