While yearning for music and the silent distance deep thought brings, I forgot the river and found a nest in its place. An arm for violence, a morning for the sake of memory. Hatefully, in the nest the bird I placed arrived too late. The wolf moon, a farmer's almanac, a stranger in the voice of mirrored midnight. I'm glad to hold hands with the abyss. I'm glad to desire an accident, a violin cracked, a tree sent upstream, put back in the ground again.
What desire for medicine is this? What medicine can surface in the eyes as a question uttered only to one's self? Only can bleak idleness erupt into kindness. A loaf of bread in a field of snow. This field in the morrow is often a place of ice and disregard but to scare birds from the field will bring the most terrible noise around me. I recover the lost windfall by way of apology. It is quiet now. I left the bread the night before. The medicine I desire, but cannot find, still prowls.
Youngly interested, a miracle appeared in the Little Red. A blink and I am standing at the butcher counter grinding my teeth to dust. Megaphone of night, engulf me whole. What would happen is just what happens. I can't hold my hand up to catch the bullet. Your face through the glass, through the night, through the brick-less eternity. Fourteen years ago I saw you in my mind singing that song and tell me hope exists if you can't remember how it goes.