Something must matter but what.
Not a Christian story but not not a Christian story either, that manger reconstructing itself as a pain in your left shoulder.
Single note trance in the soft billows of cannabis - sitting still in a ladderback chair, hands open on my knees, eyes closed - undoing thirty years of bungled meditation and fake contemplative prayer.
How deeply we sink into judgment, and then through its swampy bottoms on apophatic winds into the cosmos where equality - the absence of differentiation - i.e., where love - is the law.
Blue sky early, first in over a week, cloud-streaked and low, crows going back and forth across it, roughly north to west, stealing glances at me studying them studying me.
One begins the journey back into the woman they are by becoming the specifically broken prince they are by leaving the kingdom they are to join a feminine collective, which has known for a long time what's really going on here.
Her mouth on my neck opening old wounds for salting.
There is no chaos anywhere for the cosmos are cool and stopless, unlike death - Sister Emily said it was so - for it is all governed by laws we did not make, in which entropy is a form of coming forth more whole.
Fairy lights in glass bottles presenting non-flimsy evidence of angels.
Early mornings in November, the earth frozen and smoke taking hours to float away from the village, pilgrim ghosts swatting at cats with storm-blown sticks.
What was the first bible you read and did it have pictures you remember?
Reaching deep into the cosmos, her warm thin legs opening, something Greek in what you are together stirring, an old woman by a nearly-dead fire, unalarmed by death or anything else happening next.
Waving to the neighbors we not-so-secretly despise, and other gestural components of the atonement.
We make mistakes, there's no question, but we also bake bread, also remind people, hey, look at all that starlight turning to coral on your ribs.
Late to winter chores but laughing getting them done.
In the distance, a mountain, and in the mountain a man who saw the Lord, and in that man a loneliness, and in that loneliness a vast desert, and in that vast desert a traveler who begins by writing "in the distance, a mountain."
Or not, of course.
A long-standing paradox dissolved by Quine in slightly less than eleven pages (am I really ready for this), moving one further into entrancing heavenly seas, sunlit and rhythmic, in which the fluorescent telepathic octopus undulates and speaks to me in a language we share with others I have yet to meet.
Stirring oatmeal, bits of hay stuck to my sleeves.
Say you're grateful, ready to be, deeply, not my will but yours, say one more cup of coffee please, and say thank you for the coffee, thank you for the coffee.