When he asked who was crying so late, I said, “the owl,” and I felt very satisfied to know something.
This cooler day – this cooler ripple over my arms.
A morning is spent moving plants into floating light. A little bluer. A little less moldering. The fisted rose relaxed and the daises bloomed while I was gone. Now the orange and yellow lilies rage.
At the water's edge, one can fall asleep in the silence of glinting minnows; but I am not there. Instead, the trees cast shadows against the neighbor's garage and from the bedroom window their gestures feel like seeping water. It's not the same but is it enough?
I fell into him and the barriers gave up – gave in – gave. We someday kissed / We disappeared / We.
One foot in front of another along the seawall; that is how it is. To fall one way is to continue on almost as is – perhaps stumbling into grass or sand or land. To fall the other way is to lose footing, to get wet, or to swim. Float? The water calls this way no matter where I go – or how hard I love the land – or how much time passes between drownings.
But how do you feel about curry? It matters in a way that is different than say, blueberry pancakes or warm banana bread. The summer kitchen billows spicy air that lingers days after the meal has ended. Red skin, garlic potatoes. Asparagus from the muck fields. One might be forgiven in thinking that aroma is more fruitive than prayer.
This is the recipe. This is the feast.
Yesterday's travels brought us back and now Monday acts as if we never left. A cold spell for June. Is it permanence that causes a union to die? Salted seeds in my pocket. A long walk with the dog.
He wrote, “my hands were daylight all through the night.”
And it was ruinous.
To die this way.
May I now beg:
and allow me to enter