Traveling activities, out the window blowing hot and wild, a dragon breath from the West.

Sundown time, putting out the bed rolls on the hard ground to look up for some sky.

Astonishing when dawn comes again when you roll over and sleep a little longer.

From a rain the birds dart and the cool smell of water beads and mists and settles on the long sways of the grass billowing with the bugs and their worlds. 

The moment’s crisis is eased into the next moment and beyond. 

What would you want to hear?

I am in the smell of such morning, green and open.

A confessional for us all on a Sunday morning.  No one wants to hear that.

More coffee, the edge, the tambourine keeping time.

Fearful timid heart what would you confess? 

To be too small to feel or too vast to encompass?

As space holds the world and feels a tiny dent for the moon to fall and circle through, the moon moving each year slightly further away.

If only things could move slightly further away from me and people pressing.

Who opens further space and compresses and divides us by lines, demarcations of accepted wisdom.

The solemn dark has fled.

Who could imagine the terrors with us all along, not distant but sprouted in the cold hearts of our myopathy.

So close is the dark terror to home, we need only close our eyes.

Not one another or anything really to fear, just the failure to take notice of the pulse and beating dark within and all around us never to be fully denied, as we are thy constituent, true ones calling over infinitesimal Planck distance that you influence me,

I know you and in the dust of eons the effortless but real striving of passing bodies continue it seems to stake it all while nothing in its pocket even cherishes but a glance and a hand for the next.

Containing all and still in need of me so uncertain confessing rampant venal and deadly sins. 

Do I have your ear?

Not just the sin of distance, ignoring and ignorance but real actions in the world.

Your word, the pressure on others of the sordid world we string along with garbage and not feeding one another but with fences.

So easy to make the case but I mean something harder.

I truly intend to imply.

You have been here before.

Our lips, hearts, time has mingled like wind blowing your hair,

like the pillow gently supporting our beings, refreshed and gently nudged with sleep and night’s holy cousin of true infinity, both the small, and outward through the heart, the sky, the collapse of all we know. 

Those strange birds of extravagant feathers, those feet of the mice in the attics of grandmothers.

For that which no cleaning will suffice to answer, that which no one paid for and everyone came to see.

A calamity.

Jane, your bones washed on the shore, Joe, your teeth as so many shells scattered, Rolf your eye and idea so much of the fluttering wind that left the trees limp in a breathless heat.

The fires have ravaged the West. 

The cars have us lined up to take what’s left away.

I ask in confession, is what’s left the best or have its wings carried us and now the jaws, like six foot holes in the ground, can be as patient as time hollowing out our insides with breath, care and attention.

Attenuated, the viscera of the belly, the roe of a split open fish and that son at the door step of some other dark lover asking the same promise of being born.