Rain at six a.m., dark just lifting, stumbling through slick mud, arms full of hay.
My heart in you full to bursting, my heart in you no longer my heart but something translated, re-interpreted.
As if I were the maze, rather than the lost virgin, Minotaur or salvational thread leading out.
There are no hearts anywhere.
All night the phone rings and then chokes off when you pick up, realizing only after you've answered - ear full of dial tone - that it's not your phone, it's somebody else's phone, a phone from the 1970s, and it's not even your dream but somebody - or something - else's.
Somebody knocks on the back door, you wake up, and nobody's there, and this happens over and over and over.
Pulling her into a kiss, not thinking beyond the kiss, then being pulled by the kiss into something deep and without intent.
Going back to J.R.R. Tolkien at a late juncture and seeing what he saw and mistakenly believed had been defeated.
What is historical, antithetical. What is malignant.
Are we here? Healing? Do you hear what I hear?
My heart slips into an envelope, masquerading as a letter in order to reach her.
Kissing your feet which are the miles you've traveled and the earth you are over which you have traveled.
And you hair soft on my hips then trailing even softer over my cock when you move to hold other parts of me in your mouth.
Calling you coming in you. Homing in you, remembering flying in you, skies in you.
Rain turning to snow turning to rain again. What the radio says as night comes on, and what night says when we walk away from radios, and the world in which radios made sense, and the bodies to which they spoke, long ago and far away.