As we watch, geese fly overhead, a muscular line more than a V, seven of them angling for fields on the other side of Route Nine.
And the rain falls and falls.
Eventually we see that attention is not ours but rather we are its. Antique clocks ticking, typewriters once gathering dust on shelves suddenly clattering, an old man selling umbrellas ducking into the shop to avoid a sudden rain.
The image is dead, whatever else it is, and so it cannot respond to or be in relationship with you in any way.
Irish fairies dancing in moonlight, a line of pine trees faintly suturing the horizon to the earth. One barely reaches the lowest rung, hears the one note comprising the one song, and ascends accordingly.
How I long to rest in you, like a lake rests in its bed which rests on the earth.
Sword-swallowers, Roman historians, and the dreams of factory workers in China. The one I want to see nodding in appreciation, nods in appreciation, and I am made glad thereby.
Let us not privilege either blue or purple. Black-capped chickadee eating from my hand, how long have I been eating from yours?
How her face lit up when the hawk passed and I understood at once what I was doing and why I was there.
Schemes, grifts, card sharks, mall rats. Shall I bring you cake or shall I keep it and only dream of us eating cake together.
Whatever story you're telling yourself, whatever justification you're forging in the shadows of your mind, forgiveness and punishment are mutually exclusive.
Some equilibrium forgotten and yet not forsaken, never forsaken, as if to remind us "this is how grieving is made."
Socrates argued that it was better to rely on dialogue through speech than on writing. What is a right use of mind and how will we know?
The candy you are, the castle.