Notes, on the subject of marriage:
You alone, Love, can walk across the heather, letting foliage fall behind your shoulder. Losing you, I lose myself, but losing myself I find you. Jean Grosjean, trans. Keith Waldrop, An Earth of Time
A modest proposal,
Unexpect, a lake. A rise in the earth. Soft and sweet and mute as a cork. This all may be a construct, still. I can’t speak for. Reinventions of solitude.
Parade the days. With surroundings so familiar. Ask again, to wash the kitchen floor.
Draped in reeds, and curtain. The morning after, dusk. What is this, is new. Between leaves in a heavy book. So further from the question. Remote, in fact. Remove.
As Michelle Taransky wrote, a room of only capital letters
He only told the wood pile and the vole,
Are, indeed, an inky mile. Measure, would you. Exact notes, mine your mountain-throat.
A hand-me-diamond-down. Grandmother, now, eleven years. My mother, only one.
The Perth woods were a sentence, drawn. Diamond in the diamond-rough. We make, to the canal.
Sun stands still a shell. Absolute. Give me nothing, lest. Window, to the barn.
We mention, in this beautiful. The result of thunderstorms, stand back on the deck.
Snow flurries, fly. The squirrels, intend. I am the airship, lateral. Begun in cloud.
Lea Graham writes, the writing of days is a sugary growl.
A hand, invent, in sleep. Are still involved. Confabulate.
Dreams I’m dying. Bloodless. Haven’t yet a lawn to occupy.
Flowers, gifting backstep. Deliveries. To recapture, same.
We together mark out notes. To sing.
They swam in moonlight,
These constant, language carves. I dream of summer, distant-green. here, the sun cools. Porcelain. Up, Ottawa Valley.
Phil Hall suggests, a frozen glow. Silence, is its only form.
The unexpected path. We sequence. Perfection, thus. Third-hand, paramours. Unsettled, through the sky. Moment, fetish, this one. Small. Enjoy.
There is no single moment.
Mark, a station. Gesture, glassed. We cite confession. What do you know of me?
One is relieved, sometimes. Existing. What do we require. Censure, dearest circumstance.
Amy Dennis says, finally. Adrift, in soul-mate. Windstorm carries, off a weight. An apparition.
Loneliness, a scrapture. Megan Levad writes, it’s not true anymore.