It’s not much to say. The lawn in heaven, those starlings overhead. At some point—one is filled with images. Something titillating, unspeakable infatuations. I don’t broach the topic anymore; it makes us uneasy: love seems contagious. We put life into it. Some possess an indolence at tiers. I never caught your name. Dug out of clay … whet for romance, eager for silence, talking inside—loudness of thunder, rain of clouds, chuckling at old ignorance. To find life; we see heaven’s language; it sounds idyllic, something to reach for: it’s not much to say. Fields filled with cotton. A ninety-year-old African reminisces on ancestors—close to retiring, he fought the good fight … death is a mystery. I wrestle with it. She aches the sweetness of miseries. It never remains as it should. Too much analyzing. Too much sewing. The sky is a comforter. Dwelling in caves—reading apocalypse, disputing the ways of Daniel. It seems hectic those rays. David is beloved. I won’t broach that topic. New heirlooms; new sinews; such is sprinkled with old wine. Old polished walls, buffed ceilings, plush gardens. A bit thirsty as I age; a bit hungry for truths. So many moths, those cedar chest garbs. Old wool. Gut magnets. Bled in spirit, fed a rose. It’s not much to say. Just interested in a table, a tribunal, always needing retribution.
