I have nothing smart to say. Your face is wet as the moon.
And as far away. I held it once, that roundness, between my
thighs. It isn’t as easy as falling from the highest edges. You must
purposely plant your feet to slip on the mossy stone and yell
all the way down. I won’t catch you but I’ll join you with
my voice. I’ve done this before.
You are not going to America. What I mean to say is
take me with you wherever you go. You don’t need stillness.
You don’t need these words, intoned. Black boxes burn.
Ties get lost in the fist of your grief. Hold my hand.
My promise is a bunny with whiskers, a dog
to lick the sweet sadness of your face. My love
is the crash and power of water over a face of stone.
It’s August, MotherFuckers!
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written at the coffee shop.
Ears On Brandi Carlile.
Time Taken eight minutes (I’m rusty).
Brain On being back in the States, language, joy.