Monday, November 30, 2020

Slow Tides It's No Good Fearing

Odd stars. Unfamiliar lights.

Coiled hoses.

Benevolent cephalopods float through my dreams, guiding me back to the world of the living against my wishes, leaving me with gentle admonitions like "do the best you can!" and "you're doing a great job!"

Not even 5 p.m. and the skies cloud over and rain flies here and there, small hard stones flung from Heaven.

Heaven.

Heaven and all this darkness.

Sleeping sitting up on the couch, in and out of hazy dreams in which the dead visit, make half-hearted arguments about the existence of God, and wander off unconvinced.

Losing years. Losing rosary beads.

Floating away. Rose petals on slow tides. It's no good fearing drowning, no good getting attached to this or that oar.

Putting together sentences, one after the other, year after year. Reaching periods, then silences, then what is beyond silence. 

Picking up my mother at the airport.

Inserting chaos into what is already ruined.

The front lawn of the Cambridge Public Library.

This longstanding law-abiding confusion.

Call it home, this waking her up for help.

This lost in what was given in salvation.

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