assuming you’ll never see frail fragrant blossoms pendulous as an archway in the museum I parachute from our embrace so wide open I’ll drift a mile in the bobbing fullness of an eggshell antiquity . clearly, our love of your plump dreams would feast, yes, pray, at last lifting these arms together . maybe nothing more than the snap of the cord could be lovelier

a sinkhole garden viewed from that kitchen window as a kind of sphinx with beanpole pyramids when you were young, the world seemed limitless just see what we’ve found since, in the perimeters of a root canal while watching a grosbeak feeding merrily at the other side of the dentist’s window painlessly, as promised . keep smiling

three sessions dancing in a mental field followed by crisis in prayer life and practice of the sexual nature, followed by money and possessions Must run . Will walk later . because I hadn’t thought they’d be so closely related will you scratch the cat for me . every grub feeds on stage fright . with all encouragement, Woodchuck .  birds are singing and carpenter ants invade the bathroom my brain goes ever into these leaps, as long as we’re at it at, beginning of the year we received a pay raise under the new contract, finally

as for the cure to feeling oh so blue center (as in meditation or prayer) untangle knots or go out weeding by the kitchen (see the worshiping community as a kitchen, too) go off to any place where there’s nurture and a certain kind of warmth then prepare a decent meal, slowly concentrate on digging out, one emotion at a time, not just feelings or thoughts on the run before my flight from the opera

rather usually either/or aesthetic I find pleasing when it cloisters balance, order, tasteful in adornments and stylish you don’t see too many up this way in such possessions as clothing, what could be a trick question but instead they detest news briefs intruding on soap operas especially since a house comprises much more than domesticity

what upset me was the basic ineptitude that causes such accidents and delays to happen, still, if it hadn’t been for a couple of foolhardy neighbors one-thirty a.m., fire alarm, dashing outside before smoke in a neighboring apartment turned into flames, only then did I think who brought the blaze under control with fire extinguishers while eating way too much smoke, the fire trucks would have arrived to an attic entirely aflame so I should have carried my computer files out, too, but why the fire department took thirteen minutes to respond from a station just five blocks away is inexcusable

in outward affairs, a broken toe and off I went, steering in late snow to the emergency room blizzard, too, in sandals now, finally wearing eyeglasses for reading, blame the computer screen and more balding Maine coast from time to time, plus some light rowing and canoeing, and chamber music in mountain villages . still, the annual boat dance with live country folk band and callers cruises Boston Harbor Smell the breeze in its permutations of loving

exactly what comes next? maybe it’s Chicago within multiple trajectories of impatience and boredom before connecting and charging ahead roughshod you take a swing, fan, and fan again in this curriculum of revelations from Old Friends everywhere standing on some pebble-strewn base of a mountain, watching a squall line of religious tracts form in oppressive humidity how am I to know this will play Boston, this season or next? maybe I’ll score, ah, yes, and speaking of Hope, give her my greetings the big picture emerges one pitch at a time, here come the Sox . whoops

the one who pushed has a brain tumor on top of four or five years of chronic, debilitating, undiagnosed intestinal pain, only in her late thirties I agonize over how to respond, wanting to run up to the coast and bring her back where she would at least have someone to offer care, while from the green valley a letter saying another’s on the way to Old Order Mennonite (unless, maybe, I’d go into dairy farming? Nah!)

drawing on banked experience and earnings, I deplete the rotting woodpile of any past, my flaking barn filled with scorched ore, my private cemetery of flickering weeds all ablaze banked coals blown to life, all reduced to uncommon metal ingots of no commercial value after which I’ll no longer be gnawing lawn furniture out on the road but holed up, frugally assembling and polishing double-edged maps and chronographs to fuel industry with some fork into prophecy or political revolution or Elysium or celebrity-bashing iconoclasm, I won’t be spooked by the alchemy of regret except, maybe children