To strike a bone, accustomed to half empty skies. Too afraid to get close, for disappointment with open eyes. The way we guide each other. To have surreal secrets, rain falling. If two are without interruption, God bless them. We never know the ruins. We never complete the sentence. In yearning for life, a man found purity. In desiring a friend, a woman found a husband. (I sit in a negative patch, seen too much.) I feel good for the man up the way, he adores his family. It gets difficult, seeing all of a person. Blues blaze boldly; jazz jingles in jasper; kneaded & knotted kicking against goads; so gone those days, it felt decent, it hurt like goodness. Into a hurricane, aside a tsunami, if to understand love. In retreating, I lose ground, in surrendering, I play the fool. (It hast to sing, to sound celestial, ether, ethereal sorrows, rebuilt instincts. It was crazy when it stopped aching. To permit life to live, as if it needed permission. I still look into the horizon, lost for a minute, snapping back into focus. Something yens to live, to go that extra mile, to write a book about a keepsake.) So consumed by what moves souls, the best in life is to share music—so great a gift in those with tears.
