What is living. Dandelions gone to seed, apple blossoms everywhere, the grateful heart calling to itself any way it can.
Remembering when we were bees in Emily Dickinson’s yard? Something takes hold of me from the inside, it feels like a man who knows how to use a scythe, it feels like a fight I know I'm going to lose.
Horses come when she calls them, how is this my child. Anniversary travel plans put off for a month, stuff comes up, the marriage was never one that insisted on its own remembrance, et cetera.
There are many ways to be violent, she teaches. Waking from dreams in which many children I do not recognize taunt me, overwhelm me, ruin me where I live and I wake sadder than I can put into words, is this how it ends.
Drinking iced coffee in traffic, tireder and tireder. He is gentle with me, kind, he reminds me what I already know, he emphasizes the absolute absence of consequences.
A flurry of dust motes briefly prismatic, may I never forget to be thankful. Early morning walking in the forest, unfamiliar trails, my life passing a few dozen feet off to my left, a young man who knows how to fly, doesn’t need anybody’s bullshit, not even a future, et cetera.
Her deepest pleasure is watching my cock when I come - how it darkens and enlarges in her hand, everything opening all at once. The violets bloom suddenly earlier than expected.
It would not make sense the way it once did. On my knees staring down the impossible distance some cruel god insists must be my penance (for a sin I do not recall and which he will not reveal).
Pirate ships in my heart finally running aground, sinking, et cetera. It is the nature of hemlock trees to demonstrate how we are not near the sky but in the sky.
Sleeping alone, waking at 2 a.m., sitting on the porch in darkness, oh Nāgārjuna was this what you meant. So you can just walk away from the argument, all arguments, I did not know that.